


If These Stage Lights Were Stars

by milkyy



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkyy/pseuds/milkyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Aoba, Koujaku believed a lot of things. He believed love meant girls, that forgiveness meant forgetting, and that fate never gave second chances. </p><p>Funny how one familiar blue beauty at a strip club downtown could prove him so very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone~ ٩꒰ಂ❛ ▿❛ಂ꒱۶♡ 
> 
> This is my first chaptered fic, so here we go! 
> 
> Warning: M stuff in the near future, but this is dmmd so I doubt you guys are expecting anything less haha
> 
> Thank you everyone for all your support on my writing both here and at my tumblr! Its means so much to me! If you like this, follow me at milkysmoon.tumblr. I update there much faster, plus there'll be fic extras and whatnot. 
> 
> Anyway, here's chapter one!

~o~

“Hey babe, want a dance?”

The man seated alone at the stage stared up at Aoba through liquor-glazed eyes. They widened slowly at the sight of the scantily young man on the platform above him, the alcohol weighing heavy on his lids. He blinked a few times, his mouth falling open wordlessly as his tongue lolled for an answer.

Raising his voice a little higher in a lame attempt to talk over the throbbing club beat, he asked again, “Mister? Bar tender said you bought me a drink…so want a dance?” The man blinked at him, once, twice, then his gaze shot back down into his lap.

Aoba sighed and kneeled down on the stage so that he was at eye-level with the guy. Thank God the strip stages were on the side of the club away from the DJ’s booth so at least the noise wasn’t unbearable, but it was still loud. As early as it was for a Saturday night, it was a promising night for a full house at Glitter—between the music and the quickly growing crowd, Aoba was going to have his hands full getting this drunk guy’s attention in the first place. 

He glanced away him for a moment, to the table in between the patron’s seat and the stage. First thing he noticed were the—one, two, three, four, five, six—  _six_  empty shot glasses that were scattered around the table, meaning either this guy was on the way to being completely piss-faced or he had friends around somewhere. But Aoba had been watching this table for the past five minutes and there wasn’t a sign of any tag-alongs coming to sit with him…meaning, he was probably here alone.

Next, he noticed the man’s well-pressed button down, rich maroon and well tailored. His eye moved down the arm of his sleeve, to where there was an expensive looking gold cuff link and an even more expensive looking watch. The fat, gold ring on his finger was the icing on the cake.

From what he gathered, this guy was probably a young, newly married businessman who had mustered up the gall to come to a gay strip club after work for the first time in all thirty-some very sexually confused years of his life. Meaning this guy had no idea what he was in for, and more importantly had no idea what his wallet was in for. Aoba smiled. An easy start for the night.  _Yes_! 

The man finally looked back up at Aoba again. His eyes wavered and he suddenly plopped his hand onto the table, making all the glasses shudder. His face went red. “Uhm, uh, hello,” he managed to slur and Aoba pressed his lips together, swallowing down a giggle. 

It was time to reel him in. 

Aoba focused his hazel eyes back to the man in question, starting with a coquettish line,  “Hey, gorgeous.” He began to roll his body to the beat of the music again. Sure it was a little awkward, moving like this on his knees, but it seemed to grab the guy’s attention. So much that the man was more focused on the way his hips swayed, how he temptingly hooked his fingers underneath the leather belt that sat low on his thin hips, how his cropped leather vest rode up, showing off a alluring expanse of his bare chest. Forget conversation. He already had this guy hooked.

“You look a little lonely,” Aoba continued. Even through the streaks of digital blue light that cut through the darkness of the club, he knew that the man’s drunken flush deepened with embarrassment. “Seems like you wanted my company. Is that right?”

 The patron swallowed hard, eyes trained to the crotch of Aoba’s tight leather pants.

Perfect.

Deciding to add a little more charm, Aoba dipped down onto his hands and knees, reaching over the small divide between the stage and where the man was seated. All it took was a single finger underneath the man’s clean-shaven chin to guide his eyes back up to Aoba’s. He stiffened, glassy eyes widening at the sudden closeness, the touch of Aoba’s pretty little finger.

“Wanna to start out with a private dance?” Aoba suggested, keeping his voice as low as he possibly could, despite the almost deafening pulse of the bass. Getting clients in the VIP rooms paid the highest—almost triple a simple lap dance and double a stage set—and while he had hardly danced for this guy at all, there was no time to fiddle around out here when the guy was looking wonderfully inebriated and confused. “I know somewhere nice and quiet we can go to together, to get to know each other a bit…” 

The guy didn’t say anything for a moment, just staring. Aoba flicked his hair, letting spill over his shoulders and down his arms, pushing his offer a little further. Men loved his hair. Period. He had always been told, by family, friends, and now patrons how he had been blessed with such a unique color of hair. It was a bright, almost turquoise blue that fell past his shoulders and down his back, lustrous and thick. It worked wonders, catching the attention of potential clients in clubs and getting them intrigued by mystery boy with the gorgeous hair.

Aoba ran his fingers through it again, running his tongue over his kissable lips, making the man’s eyes bug. 

“What do you say? Sound like fun?”  

With that, the man nodded mutely. He blinked and sloppily licked his lips and then, he suddenly began fumbling through his jeans pockets, eventually producing a crinkled 5,000-yen bill. Aoba smiled. Bingo.

Beginning to stand, Aoba said, “Come with me then, babe. I’ll make sure you have a  _great_  night.”

~o~

 Koujaku wasn’t surprised that his friends pranked him for his birthday.

 For weeks it was obvious. He could sense the snicker in their voices almost a month before the party they had planned for him on his birthday night.

For weeks it was obvious. He could sense the snicker in their voices almost a month before the party they had planned for him on his birthday night.

 “Guys only,” one of the members had smirked with a not so subtle nudge of the elbow into the other’s side as the two of them announced their plans to Koujaku at one of their team meetings. “So don’t leave us this year for some girl again, alright boss.”   

“Guys only,” one of the members had smirked with a not so subtle nudge of the elbow into the other’s side as the two of them announced their plans to Koujaku at one of their team meetings. “So don’t leave us this year for some girl again, alright boss.”   

Koujaku cracked a grin and nodded, “Alright, alright, ” though these guys couldn’t keep a straight face and those mischievous glances amongst them lingered far too long for Koujaku to simply call it coincidence. Not that he was worried about it. He knew his teammates couldn’t keep a plan straight if they had been preparing for years so, he wasn’t really expecting much beyond a cake in the face or something juvenile. Something Benishigure.

Koujaku cracked a grin and nodded, “Alright, alright, ” though these guys couldn’t keep a straight face and those mischievous glances amongst them lingered far too long for Koujaku to simply call it coincidence. Not that he was worried about it. He knew his teammates couldn’t keep a plan straight if they had been preparing for years so, he wasn’t really expecting much beyond a cake in the face or something juvenile. Something Benishigure.

However, Koujaku had it admit, it took him a bit to start feel a little nervous about this prank.

At first, the plan for the party was everything that Koujaku had expected: Liquor, loud music, and the typical amiable laughter that kept Benishigure’s spirits high and their reputations even higher. They decided they were going to go to a bar and maybe a club afterwards—and while Koujaku was hardly the type to enjoy the noise and bustle of southern district on a Saturday night, he couldn’t turn down his teammates’ offer for free drinks curtsey of Benishigure.

They started out in an up-and-coming yet expensive bar that was furnished richly and offered the best of traditional Japanese spirits. So far, they hadn’t smashed a cake in his face yet—but the night was young—and Koujaku was beginning to relax. He was already starting to feel the warmth of the sake thrumming through his veins, so when the guys started ordering hard liquor, he tried to politely decline.

“No, no, no, him too!” Kou, one of his closest friends on the team hollered over his protests to the waitress. “He wants a shot too…actually, bring him two of those!” The guys buzzed in agreement and Koujaku huffed. There was really no way of getting around this, was there?  

“Quit pouting, boss! It’s your birthday!” Another one of the guys exclaimed, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you trying to make this my last birthday?” Koujaku questioned, half jesting, and the team burst into laughter.

“No. We just aren’t letting you get old and boring yet,” Kou said with a wide grin. Koujaku wanted to retort but kept it to himself. He knew his teammates only meant the best.

Or so he thought.

By his fourth shot, he was wondering exactly who were his friends here. Sure they were generous guys, but they were never  _this_  generous. They were trying to coax him into another shot of expensive shochu—when was the last time that they had drank? He raised a hand in protest and the guys groaned. “Oh come on, Koujaku, one more before we get out of here.”

“Get outta here? We’re leaving?” Koujaku questioned.  

“Yeah, remember the club? We should be headed there now, before it gets too packed.” By mutual brainwave—one that Koujaku’s short-circuited consciousness had yet to receive—the guys started to get up from the table.

“Oi! Where are we headed?” he demanded, pulling himself to his feet. He tottered a little to the side. Shit, he was certainly drunk by now.

“Club Glitter,” Kou said as he waived over the waitress to receive his coil information for payment. Koujaku raised a brow.  _Club Glitter?_  “It’s new, boss,” Kou explained. A few of the guys coughed, another gave an inexplicable little snicker.

Something was going on here.

Once they had paid for their drinks, they headed out faster than Koujaku’s alcohol dizzy mind could keep track of. Before he knew it, they were making their way through the usual late-night throng that began to buzz on this club-lined street every weekend. Koujaku held his head high, even through his drunkenness, knowing that the girls dressed in their heels and mini skirts were stopping to whisper and squeal at his presence. Some chalked it up to his good looks, others his wildly popular hair salon, and some his irresistible charm, but either way Koujaku had gained quite the reputation among men (usually jealousy) and women (usually enchantment) since he moved back to the island three years ago. 

“Let’s go with them,” Koujaku said, stumbling over his suddenly heavy tongue after a group of girls gave them flirty little waves and winks as they passed.

There was a pause and some whispering—god dammit, Koujaku strained his ears to understand what they said—and then Kou, who was walking by his side at the front, shook his head. “No, we made reservations for a table at Glitter,” he said, tugging Koujaku along. “Come on, dude, there’ll be hot girls there too.”

Another cough; another snicker.

At this point, it was just enough to rouse a momentary suspicion in Koujaku. He didn’t question it for long though; the atmosphere and his drunkenness snuffed that thought out.

Suddenly they were at a door—how long had they been walking—and then they were swept into the pulsing beat of the club.

It was dark, a little too dark, and the flickering streamlines and bursts of neon light were starting to hurt Koujaku’s head. He glanced around, slightly surprised he had never heard of this Glitter place before. The club was huge, with a massive dance floor on one side of the room and some stages with dancers on the direct opposite. Even if it was new, Koujaku could see why it had attracted such a large crowd.

The Benishigure guys were already starting to get loud and chatty. And once they were directed to a table, a few of them left to the bar. Meanwhile, the others crammed themselves and Koujaku into the booth. His brows knit in confusion as the members’ snickers began to bubble into laughter, and suddenly the realization came crashing down like a wave over Koujaku as he glanced hazily around at his surroundings. Loud music; stages covered in bills; bare skin; poles. No doubt, this was a strip club.

“Like what you see, boss?” Taro, one of the youngest members of the team hollered, a little tipsy, over the music. Koujaku couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You bastards tricked me into coming into a strip club?” he asked and Taro laughed.

“There were no tricks!”

“Hmm, then how’d you get a gentleman like me into a place like this? And anyway, are you even old enough to be seeing ladies this way?” Koujaku teased. Sure, it was an embarrassing image to have all his team members watch him receive a lap dance, but he wasn’t about to let himself ruin their fun.  _Like Kou said, you can’t get old and boring just yet_.

Taro blushed. “Uh, I…uh.”

“You know you wanted this all year long. Don’t lie!” Kou said, saving his sputtering teammate. Koujaku huffed and rolled his eyes at his friend and they bickered amicably. Meanwhile, a few of the guys came back from the bar with yet another round of shots. In an act of bravery—or maybe he really was completely drunk—Koujaku swallowed down two more of the bitter shots, earning a hollering of cheers from his teammates.

“Come on, horn dog,” Kou smirked, pulling a 10,000 yen-bill from his wallet and raising up into the air. “We’re letting you get the first dance!”

~o~

Aoba hated to call it a talent, but he sure had a way of spotting money. Once he had finished up his private dance with the guy from earlier, he was back on stage and feeling better than ever. Sure enough, the patron was drunk, married, and was completely willing to pay Aoba thousands of yen for a simple, somewhat timid slap on the ass. He paid even more when Aoba offered to give him a lap dance; the guy practically tossed over his wallet when Aoba let him know there was a barely there (1,000 yen) upcharge to remove article of clothing.

With already 30,000 yen under his belt before the usual late night rush, Aoba was ready for another—hopefully just as successful—round. And the moment, he saw the 10,000-yen bill flicking through the flashing lights, and the shadows of moving bodies swaying to the beat, he hopped off his dancing platform and sauntered his way over to the booth where a group of clearly intoxicated guys was hooting and hollering him over.

They looked like a bunch of drunken idiots. Great.

“Hey!” One of the guys, the one holding the bill, yelled. “It’s our friend’s birthday today and we were wondering if you could give him a little show for us.”

Aoba internally sighed—not another birthday—but he widened his eyes with a little and gave a flirty gasp. “A birthday boy,” he exclaimed, feigning interest. “Who’s the special guy?”

“Our friend right here,” The guy gestured over to the man seated in the middle of the circular booth. The guy in question was lolling back against the plush, quilted leather seat. His eyes were glazed over, staring blankly up at Aoba. So, Mr. Birthday was completely shit-faced. Splendid. 

Aoba sighed. Irritating or not these guys were offering money…good money…at least two hours of stage time money.  With a deep sigh, he perked himself back up for more. “Hello, handsome. Happy birthday,” Aoba purred, giving him a little wave. Mr. Birthday, blinked hard, against the lights just staring up at him. His friends just chuckled and called out a half-hearted, “You all right boss?” to the guy. 

“I’m very much fine,” he managed to say, before looking back at Aoba. “Hi.”

Aoba ran his tongue over his teeth with another long breath.  _You can do this Aoba. You can do this._

“You want me to give you a birthday treat?” Aoba asked. The guys all nodded eagerly, handing the cash over to him. The song was fading into something new, a something a little more sensual than before. He kept eye contact with the man, moving backwards towards the pole on the center of the mini stage near the booth. The friends’ laughter had reached a roar—Aoba glanced at them curiously, wondering what their problem was—before he turned back to the client at hand. Meanwhile, Mr. Birthday glanced huffily at his friends.

Then, his eyes shifted back to Aoba’s. His expression had tightened up a bit, not as sloppy as before, as he looked at Aoba straight on. He even managed to smirk, even if it was a little crooked.

 “Mmnh, what do I get for my birthday?” he asked in a slur.

 “Whatever you want,” Aoba replied, invitingly. “It’s your night tonight.” He grasped the pole behind him with his long fingers, running them over the metal temptingly until they were above his head. He curled his back away from the pole, hoping he could catch the man’s attention with the view of his body curved in such a sensual way.

The man’s eyes widened slightly. He was probably nervous, Aoba thought, but definitely interested. Not that he could blame him. His idiot friends were still giggling and snorting. Aoba bit the inside of his cheek, as he rolled his body in time to the music— _probably a bunch of immature first timers,_ he told himself. Though for now, all that mattered was that he had caught his client’s attention. That was all that mattered.

The birthday boy was looking mesmerized already.

 Deciding he had enough of these friends, Aoba lifted a finger and began to gesture him over invitingly. The man pointed to himself, and Aoba nodded, shifting his position so he could grind temptingly against the pole. The man began to make his way out of the booth, unusually focused, as if he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Though his friends hollered and squirmed in protest at the movement, until the man had stumbled his way out of the booth and towards one of the chairs that had a front row view of Aoba’s platform, right at center stage.

The dark-haired man guided himself down into the chair, using the edge of the stage to keep himself steady. Aoba kept his gaze, rolling his body against the pole again and again, as if it were a partner for this dance. The birthday boy blinked at him through his drunken haze, momentarily entranced. He ended up plopping into his seat haphazardly with a surprised little grunt. Aoba smiled a little. It was almost kind of…cute.

Aoba moved in front of the pole once more, taking a few turning steps around it, teasing. He gave his butt a little wiggle once he was right in the man’s line of sight—guys always  _loved_  that—before he turned all the way around, giving the man a delicious view of his back and spine as he began followed the heavy beat up and down the pole. His client licked his lips absentmindedly, leaning into his seat as the alcohol weighed heavy on his body.

He used the pole to spin back around, giving him an enticing little roll of the hips, pushing his fingers underneath the waistline of his pants, teasing the hemline down, just a bit. Playful fingers then moved up to the cropped edge of his shirt, moving it up higher, higher, letting it fall right before he revealed his ribcage, sending him a coy wink.

Though the guy’s face scrunched a little strangely. Just for a moment. Maybe it was just the lights.

Aoba continued to dance, running his fingers through his long hair, pushing his bangs from his face to give the man a smoldering look. This seemed catch the guy’s interest again. Aoba could tell. He swallowed hard, unfocused eyes staring up at him as he began to slip his hands up his thighs, over his chest, stopping at his nipples to touch and rub them through his vest with a promising smile. 

The man smiled back. Granted, it was a drunken smile, but there was a flicker of interest that sparked through his…well, very handsome features. All right, so he was a good-looking guy. Aoba could admit that.

 As the song ended and the next one began, Aoba pulled back, giving the man one last—very well practiced—lusty look before he dropped to his hands and knees, sensually crawling over to the edge of the stage where the man sat, looking a little stunned and a lot more aroused.

 “Did you enjoy that, Mr. Birthday?” Aoba asked, voiced honeyed and thick. The man—damn, he was even cuter up close—nodded. His mouth hung open a little, eyes shifting a little as he made eye contact with Aoba. “But I’m not all finished with my present for you just yet…do you want to see the rest?”

 “You didn’t have to get me a present,” the guy replied with a little dopey smile. Aoba actually laughed a little. Okay, this guy was  _beyond_  cute.

 “Oh, but it’s your birthday,” Aoba hummed back, pleasantly. “Don’t you think you deserve it for being such a good boy all year long?”

He sat there for a moment, probably stumbling through his drunken consciousness for a response, when he finally said, “That’s very very nice of you. Even though we just met. Though, something about you reminds me of someone I know. Something…something familiar.”

Aoba bit his lip, trying not to smile. This was commonplace in the club—get a guy drunk and he’d think anyone was his second cousin or high school lover. Paying no mind to it Aoba opened his mouth to say something else. But, before he could even start the sentence or realize what was happening, the man reached out and touched the crown of his hair.

The dancer stiffened.

“This is very familiar,” he continued, running his long fingers through Aoba’s hair, with a somewhat haphazard start albeit falling into gentle touch. “Completely unforgettable. Though, I don’t really know from where… Where are you from? Where are you from?” Aoba didn’t stop him or shift away or even move…he just sat there, stunned, as the man tenderly moved his fingers through his hair with unusual precision, just touching.

With that he pulled away, giving Aoba two clumsy pats on the head.

It had always been his policy that his hair was off limits—no tugging, combing, pulling, or touching. Period. But…it was such an innocent touch, completely harmless. And while it certainly ruffled the style a bit, (not that dancing hadn’t done that already) there was no damage done. In fact, the guy sent him another one of those silly, completely drunk smiles. Aoba sighed. All right. He was going to let that go.

“Anyway, let’s get to unwrapping your gift,” Aoba started again, ignoring whatever just happened, purring voice back just as syrupy and sweet as ever. “Though, we may need to go to a private room for this kind of gift. We’ll need some you know,” he glanced past the man, towards his still giggling, even more drunk pals, and then back, “alone time.”

 “But my team…”

“Oh they’ll be all right. They want you to have a little fun on your birthday. That’s why they brought you here, right?” 

And with that, the man was seemingly convinced. Aoba made his way off the stage, meeting him at his seat. He took his much larger hand in his own, and began guiding him past the crowded dance floor and towards the back of the club. Behind him, he could hear his client’s friends’ laughter reach an all time high of frenzy, followed with cat-calls and howls—a pack of complete idiots—before they turned the corner to one of the quitter halls. He stopped at a booth, picking up a set of keys and heading straight towards one of the rooms.

 “I hope the present isn’t cake,” the guy babbled as he stumbled along. “I’d hate to refuse, darling, but I don’t like sweets very much…. by the way, what’s your name?”

Aoba didn’t reply until they reached his room. He tapped the wall beside his door with his finger—the tag read Sly Blue.

“What’s a,” he squinted, “Sly Blue?” Aoba snorted, back turned as he unlocked the door.

“It’s my name,” he said. “You can call me, Sly Blue.” He pushed the door open, taking the man’s hand in his own once more.

“Oh! Like your hair! Your pretty hair. You have very beautiful hair by the way. I’m a hairdresser, I should know that.” Aoba forced down another laugh as directed the man into the room. He pushed the door shut with his foot and quickly flipped the switch from vacant to occupied. The guy had already flopped down onto the couch in the booth of the room. 

“Are you sure it’s not going to be a cake?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Don’t worry,” Aoba said over his shoulder, sweetly, programming the room’s sound system. A song started, just like the one on the main floor of the club, slow, heavy, and with a sensual beat. He turned back around, giving the birthday boy a mesmerizing little smile. “It’s going to be something a little better than cake.” 

“Is it something I can taste?” he asked simply.

Aoba chuckle, sauntering over to the booth. He straddled the man’s lap, earning a gasp, before he tangled his hands through the man’s long, dark hair, lips lingering dangerously close to his. “If you pay, I’ll let you taste all you want.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys~ Here's chapter two with a little background and a very hungover Koujaku hehe
> 
> Thanks for all your support so far! Let me know if you enjoy~

Koujaku woke up with a jolt and immediately realized that this wasn’t his apartment. He suddenly twisted around—where was he?—and accidentally flung himself onto the tatami floor with a _thunk_.

The golden, early afternoon light pierced through the rice paper window treatments as he glanced around the room, trying to figure out exactly where he was. Traditional Japanese décor mixed with elements of a bachelor pad, slightly disheveled but not enough to be considered messy, a large sword on display over the modest television—a sword with a strikingly elaborate scabbard that Koujaku had given as a birthday gift. Oh. Right. This was Kou’s apartment.

He lay there for a moment, eyes blinking against the harsh sunlight that lanced through his retina straight to his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, that didn’t help, his whole world going a bright, screaming red. “God damn,” he grumbled, rolling onto his side.

A moment later, the door quickly slid open. “Boss, you alright?” Kou stood above him, shirtless and rumpled, looking concerned. His eyes widened when he realized his leader’s pathetic looking state. “What happened, man? How the hell did you fall?” he took a few steps into the room toward the sofa where Koujaku was apparently sleeping beforehand, each footstep sounding leaden through the floor near his head.

Koujaku squinted up at him, scrunching his nose as his eyes slowly focused. He released a low pitiful groan—in the way of saying he didn’t want to talk about it. That made Kou’s expression softened a little. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he said, “Geesh, no offense boss, but you look like a wreck.”

“You’re no beauty yourself,” he replied hoarsely, voice sticking to the walls of his throat, sending his kouhai a thin smile. Kou snorted and laughed. Koujaku suddenly squeezed his eyes shut again—the noise pulsed through his skull like a sonic boom—and the younger quickly realized his mistake.

“Sorry, sorry!” he practically whispered, cringing.

Koujaku reached up, rubbing his temple. “It’s fine. Just a little hung over.”

“I bet,” Kou said, going to sit down and then stopping himself. “Wanna sit up on the couch?” he offered. Koujaku was in no mood to move, let alone heave himself up onto the sofa. He shook his head with a dismissive wave of the hand. The younger pursed his lips, looking a little apprehensive, but eventually made himself comfortable, propping his feet up on the center table. “You really let loose last night.” He smiled at the memory and let out a small, very quiet, laugh. “We’ve never seen you that way before.”

Koujaku stiffened. While he could remember some things to a certain extent, the liquor had doused most of his recollection, rendering his memory worthless. “It’s your fault,” Koujaku grumbled, feeling a sudden pang of embarrassment. He could only imagine what he had done…

“It wasn’t a bad thing, boss. It was fun!”

“Maybe for you,” he huffed back, gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m too old for all this now.”

“Sure, didn’t seem like it last night,” Kou said from the side of his mouth, poorly concealing his amusement. Koujaku turned back onto his side to glare at him. “What? You have to at least remember something!”

He blinked. What did he remember…well, he remembered the bar they went to, and then the guys insisted on going to a new club…it was named something silly. He pondered it for a moment. Wait a second…It was a strip club wasn’t it!

“You took me to a strip club,” Koujaku suddenly said. His eyes narrowed, accusingly. “You guys tricked me into going into a strip club!” Kou snickered but he quickly swallowed his laughter, shoulders shaking as he tried to contain himself.

The more Koujaku thought about it, the more he remembered. Oh right. There was the stage they were sitting by, and someone called over a dancer…and he received a personal show. Yes, he received a very…sexy show.

 

And, he remembered blue. Blue, more brilliant and eye-catching than any of the streaking lights that cut through the darkness and buzzing crowd. 

“I have to admit, it was too funny!” Kou said, laughter slipping through his voice. “It was Hiroki’s idea in the first place, but man, we never knew it would work!”

“What exactly happened?” Koujaku asked, more curious than anything else. It didn’t seem like he had done anything particularly stupid—Kou was in a good mood, didn’t seem like anyone was battered, bruised, or head first in a toilet—and as his memory began flickering the remnants of last night’s events, he wasn’t coming across anything blatantly awful.

“You don’t remember?” he asked and Koujaku shook his head. “At all?”

“I mean, I’m having little flashes of things here and there, but nothing very telling.”

“Man…uhm,” Kou glanced up at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, from what I remember, we waved over that stripper and you got a dance and then after you guys started talking about something and you suddenly left somewhere. You didn’t come back for a while…. so we figured you must have gotten some special kind of service.” 

“Service?” Did that mean they had sex or… The last thing he wanted was to pay for sex, especially while he was being a complete sloppy drunk. Poor girl.

He pursed his lips, searching for a memory, some clue hidden in his consciousness. But all he could think of was that pretty blue…soft and lush against his skin. He suddenly remembered running his fingers through it, all that blue, commenting again and again on the hair’s impressive color and condition. He had only seen hair like that once before, back when he was still a kid and he used to babysit with one of the littler boys in the neighborhood who was born with exotic locks just like that. He was such a pretty little kid, prettier than any of the girls he’d grown up with. 

Koujaku couldn’t believe someone else was born had such a unique color—though it was apparently possible.  Yet, after nearly ten years of styling hair, he had seen the full gamut and he hadn’t seen hair quite like that in a decade. Could have been dyed, he thought, but it was so rich and healthy like virgin hair…oh, if only he could have looked at it in the light…

“So, what’d you two end up doing, huh?” Kou questioned, pulling Koujaku from his thoughts. The younger was smirking at him insinuatingly, brows raised.

“I’m not really sure,” Koujaku admitted, clumsily rubbing at his eye. “I kinda remember getting a lap dance or something, but that’s pretty much it.”

This time Kou really did laugh. Koujaku’s eyes wrenched shut, earning another lame, half-giggling but earnest apology from his kouhai. Finally, once he had settled down, Kou said, “Well, I for one am surprised.” 

Brows knit together. “Hm? Surprised about what?”

“You know, that you swing that way. Who would have guessed?”

Swing where. Swing what… 

“Huh?” Koujaku blinked at him, still confused. But…they were at a strip club. Strip club meant girls. What was this talk of swinging?

Kou was still smiling. “You know, that you like guys! We were all in complete shock when you let us call one of the dancers over.” Koujaku’s stomach freefell, a sick, sour feeling rising into his throat.  _What?_

The younger suddenly stopped, his amusement waning as he read his leader’s appearance.  His brows fell and expression grew uneasy. “Boss…don’t you remember? We were all just joking when we brought you into Glitter…you know that Glitter only has male strippers…you knew that, you had to of. You were so gungho about it, and…”

“I was drunk!” Koujaku suddenly interrupted, feeling his skin starting to clam up, his voice rising a little. His headache had spiked to an all-new level, his brain suddenly feeling molten. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know those were guys!”

“Boss, it’s okay!” Kou quickly cut in. “We were all drunk! We were all doing stupid stuff. We just brought you in there and we figured we could go to the club, but we just suggested the stripper cause it’d be funny…but you actually agreed. I would have stopped it if I had known!”

“You should have known! I like girls! I’ve liked girls all my life! What would make you think I’d want a male stripper?” Koujaku was starting to get frantic—and by the looks of Kou, he was looking pretty panicked as well. A mix of anger, confusion and embarrassment pulsed through Koujaku’s veins and he clenched his fists, clipped fingernails digging into his palms. 

“Boss, I’m sorry, it was just a joke.” The younger looked across at him, pupils shrunken and quivering, desperate.

Koujaku took a deep breath. He couldn’t lose his temper here.

Neither of them said anything, silence stagnant and dense in the room.

“Look,” he finally said, closing his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose, rubbing in slow circles. “I get it. It was a joke. I’m not gonna hold that against you or the guys, alright? I played my fair share of pranks, so now it’s my turn to be the old man getting teased, I suppose.”

Despite the fact that Koujaku apparently wasn’t holding any grudges, Kou was quiet. “…I’m really sorry boss. I don’t know what I was…Can I make it up to you somehow?”

Koujaku regarded him, blinking hard against the light. “Look, I’m giving you a get free card on this. But no more pranks again. Next time, I’ll just kick your ass and we’ll be even. Sound okay?”

Kou’s expression brightened in almost wonder and puzzlement. A wide grin spread across his features and he suddenly nodded. “Yes sir!”

“Good,” Koujaku grunted. “Now, can you get me a bottle of aspirin and some coffee?” The younger nearly leapt to his feet. “And while you’re at it,” he added, looking the younger straight on, “Tell the others I’ll beat them to a pulp if they tell anyone about what happened last night.” 

Kou’s eyes widened momentarily but he bounced back and nodded. “I won’t let you down boss!”

Once Kou scurried out of the room, Koujaku flopped back, forgetting for a second that he was still on the tatami. Head pounding, he stared at the ceiling past his drooping eyelids. What had his life come to…he thought about for a long while, as he listened to his partner in the other room preparing the coffee. But all he could think about was that impossibly blue hair, hair that must have belonged to his dancer last night. He wondered what type of gal—er, guy that he was. 

He vaguely remembered the dancer’s features, pretty hazel eyes, soft pink lips, pale skin that was supple underneath his hands. And of course, that unforgettable hair.

~o~

Granny was quick to point out the rip in her grandson’s jeans as he made his way into the kitchen. “What happened?” she demanded as Aoba opened the fridge to examine his options. He shifted the weight of the fluffy little dog in his arms, as he bent down. Ren didn’t complain. He had gotten used to being carried around this way.

That morning, Aoba had noticed that he wore a hole in the back pocket of his favorite jeans—he had no idea how that happened—but he figured he could still wear them as long as he covered it up a bit with his shirt. It looked fine in the mirror before he came downstairs…though maybe it really was time to just throw them away. 

She peered over at him from her spot at the dinner table, and shook her head with disgust. “Looks like they exploded or something.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Aoba said over his shoulder, moving to the batch of donuts that must have just came out of the oven, drawn to the confectionary scent of powdered sugar wafting through the kitchen. He took a bite and sighed. Granny always made the best pastries. When he finished it, he let Ren lick the sugar off his fingers.

“Maybe you’re gaining weight,” she muttered, loud enough to be heard, as she flitted her attention back to newspaper. Aoba didn’t reply—he had learned long ago that Granny’s porcupine demeanor didn’t mean she loved him any less. And anyway, what did she know about wearing jeans? He didn’t even think he had seen her in a pair of pants in his entire life.

Beside her at the table, his twin brother giggled.

“Granny, it could be that Aoba’s pants are just getting old,” Sei said with a soft smile, tucking his shoulder-length, black hair behind his ear. Granny looked at him, her severe expression softening just a tad. “He hasn’t gone shopping in a while, have you, Aoba?” Sei twisted around to look at his brother, holding a hot cup of milk tea he had just brewed delicately in his hands.

“I don’t need to go shopping all the time,” Aoba replied back, knowing how much his twin enjoyed milling around stores. “I have enough clothes to suit me and that’s all that I need.” He leaned against the countertop, hugging Ren against his chest, donuts still in reach.

“But you’ve let them fall apart,” Sei simply pointed out, still smiling. “I think its time you treat yourself, nii-chan.”

Aoba sighed and rolled his eyes. “It’s fine. I can patch them or something.”

“Listen to your brother,” Granny said, face still buried in the home and family section. “I don’t want any grandson of mine running around looking raggedy.”

Sei giggled again. “Come on, Aoba. It’ll be fun to go shopping together. When was the last time we went?”

Sei knew how much he hated shopping…then again, shopping with him was always an extravaganza. Not that Aoba could really blame him. After spending so much time in the hospital, Sei window-shopped as if he were making up for the years when he couldn’t go shopping at all. The first few times Aoba humored him; but after four hours of trying on what felt like everything in the damn store, just to not buy anything at all, he decided they could spend time together elsewhere.

His older brother (by only a few minutes) was diagnosed with systematic lupus erythematous when they were five years old. Back then, it didn’t mean much to Aoba, just empty words that were hard to say. But it did mean that Sei started getting mysterious bruises and suddenly didn’t want to play anymore, and eventually one day, their mom and dad had explain why Sei had gone away to live at the hospital for a little while.

“Why don’t you just buy them for me?” Aoba asked, taking another donut. “We’re almost the same size.”

“Hardly,” Granny spat. “You’ve got bigger hips.”

This time both twins rolled their eyes in unison.

For most of their childhood, Aoba and Sei were separated—so it surprised Aoba that they still had the “twin connection” he had read about in books and seen in movies. At first, Sei only went to hospital every few weeks; soon it became every day. And after their parents had left and Sei was admitted full time, Granny tried her hardest to make it to the hospital every night after work. For a while, Aoba would join her but visiting hours were only so long and Aoba’s teen years were turbulent, evasive, spending nights out with friends rather than cooped up in a dingy hospital room. They may have been twins, but for most of his life, Sei was like his mother and father: a part of a family Aoba knew existed but felt like a distant dream.

But one day, when they were in their twenties, Aoba came home to Sei sitting on the sofa. He nearly screamed—granny smacked him with her house shoe for being so noisy. But how could he help it? It had been years,  _years_  since he had seen that familiar face somewhere other than a sterile looking hospital room and more importantly here in the home where they all of them – his mother, father, granny, and Sei—had all lived together. Before things got bad. Before things changed.

That day, Sei gave him a little shy wave. Aoba sent him one back. They didn’t need many words. Aoba guessed it was one of those so called “twin things”.

Sei still wasn’t cured. Apparently, lupus had no cure. “It’s chronic,” he explained to Aoba one day. “The doctors say it’ll never really go away. But it hasn’t flared up for a while, so I like to think its cured…in its own way.” He had been in remission for the past year now and while some symptoms never seemed to disappear, like his lack of energy and terrible joint pains, he was getting around better than ever before.

“And your butt is bigger than his too.” Granny continued. ”It’s because you eat so unhealthy! Always stopping for fast food!”

This time, Sei started really laughing.

“Granny, I do not have wide hips or a big butt,” Aoba grumbled, feeling somewhat tag teamed (though it was kinda true). At least Ren was on his team, he thought with a small smile. Ren. His best friend. He had found the puppy abandoned when he was a teenager and couldn’t help but take him in. Back then, he thought Ren would grow up to be a large, vicious attack dog. But he stopped growing at an unimpressive 20 pounds; not that Aoba minded much by then. He had already decided that he made a better lap buddy anyway.

“You headed to work?” Sei asked after a moment. Aoba nodded.

“Yeah, got another shift,” he said, stepping into the living room to grab his bag off the sofa. Sei and Granny knew where he worked now. It was awkward the first time he admitted that he stripped—he kept it a secret for almost two years—but they both accepted it in their own ways. Sei even started asking Aoba for dancing practices. 

“But this is the fourth one in a row,” Sei said, voice dipping in concern. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Aoba said, bending over to let Ren down onto the floor. He brushed his furry body against Aoba’s ankle, still staying near. “I can’t afford to miss these weekends. I made over 100,000-yen last night alone,” he said. “And that’s after I paid the club and DJ!”

When Aoba thought about last night, he grinned. It was a very successful night. Between the pitiful first client, his stage sets, and the drunken guy with the birthday, Aoba had made a very decent wage.

Especially since the second client was completely trashed and practically incoherent by the time they made it back to the private room. It was an easy lap dance; he just grinded against him for a while, got him hard and then began his usual offering of services. The man was willing to pay to remove the dancer’s shirt and pants, not too lofty of a request in Aoba’s opinion. Especially since he was so good-looking and so cute… Not that it really mattered or anything though. Throughout the night, it became apparent that he was clearly straight. He kept pawing around during the lap dance, asking where Aoba’s boobs were and at one point, he even called him a beautiful lady. Aoba hated when this happened, but what could he do? Money was money and whether the guy would regret it in the morning or not was not Aoba’s problem. 

Still, it was kind of a disappointment…

“You better not be doing anything illegal,” Granny said after a moment. She glanced up at him. Her sunken, thin eyes narrowed and reminded him of the mouths of clams. Aoba sighed. How many times had he told her this…

“Granny, I just dance. That’s it.”

“You better be. I just read some story in the newspaper about a young girl who started prostituting herself and ended up getting murdered by one of her clients. They found her body chopped up in a garbage can weeks later.”

Sei scrunched his nose. “Ew, Granny, that’s awful.”

“It’s the world we live in these days,” she said, grimly.

“Well, that’s not going to happen to me guys,” Aoba huffed, rolling his eyes. He threw his bag onto his shoulder. “I work at a very safe, very reputable club.”

“Can I still visit you at work sometime?” Sei suddenly asked, big eyes blinking up at him excitedly.

Aoba, grimaced, hesitating. Sei knew what a stripper was to an extent, but Aoba was pretty sure he didn’t really understand that he would be seeing his twin brother teasing off his clothes on stage for a group of howling men. “I mean—“

“Not until your health gets better,” Granny quickly interrupted. “I don’t know what kind of stress that atmosphere would put on your body. It would be troublesome if you got sick again.”

Sei sighed, disappointed. “Yes, Granny.”

“Someday, alright,” Aoba said, hoping to brighten his mood a little. Sei gave him a sweet smile in return. After leaning down to pet Ren’s head one last time, Aoba headed for the sliding door that led to the main hallway. “Alright guys, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Sei, leaned down and scooped Ren up into his lap before he waved goodbye. Granny hollered, “Don’t forget to lock the damn door on your way out! I made you a key for a reason!”

“Got it,” Aoba called back, sending the three of them one last wave and smile.

“Bye-bye!”

“Hmph!”

Aoba headed to the main door, pulling on his boots in the genkan. He found himself getting used this new version of the Seragaki family, Seragaki 3.0 he liked to call it. Things sure were different now—different from when his parents were there and different from when Sei had left—but for the first time in a long time, he could say that he finally felt like a part of a family.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments, kudos and all your support! ꒰♡˃̶̤́ ॢ꒳ ॢ˂̶̤̀ ꒱·◌*.♡

Aoba made it to work 7 minutes before his shift. The DJ sent the first few shocks of musical current across the dance floor, rousing the pulsing beats of the club’s heart center. After saying hello to the stony bouncer up front, Aoba slipped through the front door hoping he wouldn’t be noticed coming in late from his coworkers or worse, his boss.

“Hey Aoba!” 

Aoba cringed. Shit.

He turned around and then exhaled in relief, realizing he knew that voice all too well. 

He gave the bartender, Mizuki a sheepish little wave. The man beamed at him, leaning against the bar counter, shot glass in hand. 

“What’s up Mizuki?” Aoba said, slowing his pace towards the dressing rooms as he passed the bar.

“I should be asking you that! You’re the one that has officially uh,” Mizuki glanced down at the coil on his wrist before looking up again with a teasing smirk, “five and a half minutes to get dressed, ready, and on the stage.” Then, in a deepened, mock reporters voice—equipped with an imaginary microphone and all—he asked, “Seragaki-san, do you think you can complete the challenge with the time allotted?”

Aoba chuckled, replying back in his own deepened tone, “I was born ready.”

Mizuki laughed, grabbing a dishtowel and drying the glass in his hand. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, boss isn’t going to be here tonight. I won’t tell anyone if you take your time.” Aoba felt a wave of relief and he grinned at the man. Mizuki smiled back, wiping down the already pristine looking bar. “We can’t have you looking half-assed now can we?”

“I’m sure no one will mind too much, ”Aoba said as he playfully rolled his eyes. “Especially if you get them drunk before they notice me.”

“Mission accepted,” Mizuki joked back. “I’ll get ‘em drunk so there are no negative online reviews about our questionable looking dancer.”

“Deal!” Aoba snorted and laughed before starting to heading toward the back of the club once more. “Thanks again, Mizuki!” he said, over his shoulder. “I gonna go get changed and I’ll be on the floor in a bit!”

“See ya soon!”

It took Aoba exactly nine minutes to get himself out of his clothes and into the tight leather hot pants and chest-bearing jacket that was provided for him in his locker. It was no surprise—this was his typical wear for a night like this where he was doing more go-go dancing than actual stripping. The dancing staff rotated throughout the week, taking shifts for both the dance floor area of club as go-go dancers and in the adjacent strip club area. Go-go nights were Aoba’s favorites because he could simply dance without having to hunt for patrons and more importantly, without having to remove his clothes.

Not that he wasn’t already scantily clad enough. Glitter kept their dancers looking tempting. Aoba readjusted the tight shorts over his ass in the mirror, checking his face and body for any last imperfections or flaws. Simple. Sexy. He ruffled his hair one last time before deciding he was ready to go.

 

Luckily, it was still early and the few club-goers who had arrived were lingering around the bar. Aoba snuck up onto his dancing platform during a transition of songs, warming up his body to the simple, even tempo of the music.

And four songs in, he was feeling good. Energized. The music tonight wasn’t particularly great. But the club was already buzzing with a rather large first wave of customers, which was enough to keep him distracted. He already had a small audience of guys lingering around the edge of his platform, watching with that mesmerized look Aoba had seen all too many times while he was stripping; though if he were stripping, he’d amp up his sex appeal a little, give them an alluring pre-show. But tonight, Aoba just smiled down at them and gave them a flirty little wave before letting himself fall back into rhythm. 

The club was already packed—which was really unusual for a Sunday night—and the crowd was looking promising. Shitty music or not, tonight was going to be a good night.

When he heard the first few bars of one of his favorite songs, Aoba grinned. 

Yes! Finally something good! He had to keep himself from singing the first line of lyrics, preparing himself for the beat to come in. He even bobbed his head. He had requested this song in particular—all the dancers got three songs to request each night, in case they had particular routines to go along with them. And while Aoba hadn’t prepared anything special, his body demanded to dance to its fullest.

So, he wasn’t expecting it when the song lingered over a particular line—god, Aoba hated when the DJ changed songs like that; it was only worse when the beat Aoba had listened to over and over again, the beat Aoba _loved_  never came. The melody suddenly dropped, replaced by a thundering electronic bass.

Aoba almost stopped dancing.

What happened to his song? One of his  _favorite_  songs had been transformed into a mess of warbling bass. He couldn’t even dance to this! But, the club crowd was surprisingly energized by the remix. Aoba blinked watching as the crowd swayed to the music, getting increasingly excited as the music suddenly switched tempos. Really? They liked this stuff?

Aoba sighed. Fine. 

He tried. He really did. But the song was practically impossible to dance to, the unpredictable leaps back and forth leaving his body confused and disoriented as it searched for at least some underlying beat to follow. The other boys didn’t look like they were fairing well either. Some of them stood confused, glancing back and forth amongst themselves from their individual stages as they tried to pass ideas to each other. Aoba shrugged off at them. He was at a loss for words.   

 He ended up swaying his hips awkwardly (he hoped no one was paying attention to him because he felt like a dead fish up on stage) until the song faded out. But just as quickly as that one ended a new one started up. It was just the same as the last one. A random, chaotic mix of electronic sounds. He twisted around, sending a sharp glare over at the DJ table that was situated on a high above the dance floor.

After twenty minutes of the same shit again and again, Aoba stormed off the stage for his break. He headed straight for the bar, squeezing between a few lingering patrons to plop down onto one of the stools. The man seated beside him leered over at him drunkenly and opened his mouth to talk, but Aoba stopped him, mechanically reciting, “I’m on my break right now sir, and it’s against company policy for dancers to interact with patrons while not on shift. Talk to me in ten.”

The guy blinked at him, confused. But before he could get a word in, Mizuki had weaved his way over to where Aoba was sitting and flashed him a concerned look.

“You on break?” Aoba nodded, still stewing. “Looks like you need a shot man,” he said, just slightly in jest. Aoba pouted. The most he could get was a virgin drink. He wasn’t allowed liquor on shift and while it was common for patrons to buy him drinks, it was requirement that the bartender nixed the alcohol. 

Mizuki turned around to the tap, coming back a moment later to pass Aoba a cup of water. The dancer gave him a small nod in gratitude, taking a long sip from the straw. “Having a rough night?” he asked after a moment, as he worked on filling a customer’s request. 

Aoba pushed a sigh through his teeth. “I’m pissed because the music has been shitty all night and there hasn’t been a single song for us dancers. We can’t even follow this stuff.” He took another sip. “We all are just standing up there feeling stupid, humiliating ourselves because the DJ won’t even throw us a single bone.” 

Mizuki gave him a small, helpless shrug. “Sorry man.”

Aoba huffed. “What is with him tonight?” He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the DJ booth that was suspended high above the dance floor below, to create the illusion that it was floating. “He never played this stuff before…”

“It’s because it’s a new guy,” Mizuki explained. Aoba snapped back around, eyes widening.

“What? What happened to the other DJ?”

Mizuki shrugged, before being called over to fill a drink. He came back a moment later, saying, “I heard he got into some trouble with the law. I dunno. Seemed bad when I heard it.”

“Man, he was just here yesterday,” Aoba said and Mizuki simply frowned. Then, Aoba paused, expression shifting into annoyance. “No one ever tells me this stuff!”  

“Cause no one knew you’d be so interested,” Mizuki chuckled. He removed the hose from the tap again, topping off Aoba’s half full cup of water. 

“So,” Aoba continued after a pause, “Who the hell is this new guy?” He took a drink of water and then scrunched his nose. “He sucks.”

Mizuki raised a brow. “He’s apparently the top charted DJ on the island right now.”

Aoba’s face twisted with bewilderment as he exclaimed, “What!  _This_  guy?”

“Yeah. I could hardly believe it either.” Mizuki’s attention was drawn to a customer for a second and turned around to grab a bottle of expensive vodka, before continuing over his shoulder, “Everyone calls him Ruff-Rabbit, but I’ve heard that his name is Noiz. Apparently, boss made a really good offer when he saw that he was looking for a club to sponsor him here in Japan.”

Mizuki grabbed a few shot glasses before setting them up on the bar in front of the customer and his accompanying friend. He made a show out of seamlessly pouring the liquor into each of the glasses, before sliding them over to the both of them with a smile. Girl giggled and clapped happily and the guy handed him over a pretty large tip.

“He’s already been bringing in quite the crowd,” he continued as he counted the money. “I’ve been smashed all night. Pretty impressive for a kid who’s only nineteen.”

Well, that explained why the club was so unusually crowded for a Sunday night… 

Aoba never would have guessed that this type of music would have drawn such a crowd, but the club was starting to fill to the point where the people at the dance floor were spilling out into the walkways and even as far back as the strip club area. Mizuki rushed to take another order on the other side of the bar, grinning and talking amicably with the customers. Never losing his gusto. He came back to Aoba a moment later, talking as he continued filling drinks at this side of the bar.

“I dunno know about you, but people are eating this shit up,” he said, glancing over to the dance floor. Aoba followed his gaze. People were bobbing and swaying, screaming and chanting to the DJ as if this were a concert. Aoba had never seen Glitter like this ever before. “They love this guy.”

“Why have I never heard of him before?” Aoba asked, giving a little petulant huff. Popular or not, this wasn’t the type of music for go-go boys and definitely not strippers. This was a one-man show at this point.  

“Someone said he got popular overseas last year and a lot of his stuff just debuted in Japan a few months ago,” Mizuki glanced back at Aoba. “I think he’s German.”

Aoba huffed. “I think he’s an asshole for making us try to dance to this.” His head was already beginning to hurt with the thought of having to try to keep up with this again.

“Who knows,” Mizuki said, “Maybe he doesn’t realize that you guys have a list of requests prepared for him. You have to remember, it  _is_  his first day.”

Aoba rolled his eyes, though he knew Mizuki was right. With a sigh, he relented. “I guess so.”

Aoba’s break was ending just as quickly as it started and he was feeling hesitant about heading back on stage again. He downed the rest of his water before standing up from his seat. “Alright, have fun manning the bar,” he said, giving Mizuki a small wave. The bartender sent him a little salute back in between pouring shots.

“You be good out there,” Mizuki called back. “Remember: it’s his first day.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aoba got up, heading back onto the stage.

He started the second half of his shift grinding against the pole on his stage with random, over-sexified movements, rubbing and touching his body in ways he reserved for his stripping nights. It momentarily caught a few peoples’ interest—but it was literally a second before they were sucked back into staring and gawking at the wordless DJ that never bothered to even look up once and regard the crowd’s presence. They even forgot to tip him. 

Aoba could have literally been doing the hokey-pokey up there and no one would have ever noticed.

He ended up spending the rest of the night glowering off at the crowd who was far less interested in him or any of the other dancers and rather the DJ. At one point, one man wordlessly slid him over a 100-yen bill on his platform in what Aoba assumed to be sympathy.

He kept reminding himself of what Mizuki had said. There was no reason to be harsh just yet.

But he couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about this DJ that had everyone so riled up.

By the end of the night, Aoba was feeling more exhausted than usual. He gathered his lackluster tips for the night and headed to the dressing room, changing out of the sweat-slicked leather uniform and back into his usual long sleeve shirt and blue jeans in record time. He had to make sure he made it back out before that DJ left. He figured he could tell him about the songs now and also, give him his pay in person.

Not that he really knew who he was looking for. Between the angle of the stage in retrospect to the DJ’s booth and the endless darkness brought on by shadows cast by the heavy stage lights, Aoba couldn’t even link a facial feature to the guy. Plus, Aoba hadn’t seen him look up once the entire night.

But after some asking around and context clues (he figured he was the guy hanging around back behind the stage, on his knees and fiddling furiously with one of the huge speakers) Aoba made his way over.

“Are you, uh, Noiz?” Aoba asked, the name foreign on his tongue. “Ruff-Rabbit?” The guy twisted around from the mess of wiring he was working with and glanced up at him. The already petulant frown that creased his youthful features deepened into a full scowl and Aoba counted one, two, three, four—holy shit he had a lot of piercings.

“Yeah, what do you want?” he bit off, shortly. His words were clipped not necessarily by an accent but rather his irritation and Aoba already felt his nerves begin to prickle.

“Uh, hi, I’m Serakagi Aoba. I’m one of the dancers here.” He gave a quick, little bow in greeting. Noiz didn’t return the gesture. “I just thought I’d say hi, since it was your first day here and all.”

Noiz raised one of his shaved eyebrows, where a double hoop was pierced through. His expression didn’t waver. “And, “ Aoba started again, starting to sway nervously back and forth on his heels. “Thought your style of music was interesting. It’s a lot different than what our previous DJ used to play.”

“Alright?”

“Well, one thing we do here at Glitter is we give the dancers an opportunity to request music that they can dance to for the night. It’s really for the guys who are doing the…uh exotic dancing, but sometimes the go-go boys get a chance to put requests in too.” Aoba handed over the paper in his hand, where a variety of different handwritings had written out three songs each. Noiz took it, eyes narrowing as he examined the sheet. “Our old DJ used to integrate his music with ours, so that we could have specific dances prepared for our clients…” Feeling a little more nervous, Aoba added, “It’s only three songs per dancer, so it’s hardly less than forty minutes of music. And you can mix it however you’d like but it just helps us dancers be a little uh, prepared.”

After an excruciatingly silent moment, Noiz glanced up. “Are you telling me you want me to play this?”

“Uhm…yes. If you could, it would really mean a lot to us.”

His sharp gaze snapped back down to the paper. He grunted something that remotely sounded like a laugh and Aoba didn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more nervous. He swallowed hard. “You realize that you handed me a list of shit right?” Noiz finally said after a moment. Aoba’s face suddenly went hot.

“I-It’s not shit!” he suddenly retorted back. “It may be different than what you’re used to playing but—“

"But what?” Noiz’s stare locked tight to him and for the first time, Aoba swore he saw a flicker of emotion pass through the blonde’s eyes. Almost as if he were challenging him…

“What you played was impossible to dance to!” Aoba fired back, losing whatever qualms Mizuki had pointed out earlier. “It was difficult for us to follow and while we can adapt in some places to this new music style, you need to find some middle ground with us too.”

There was a pause. “I’m not playing this Goatbed-bullshit,” Noiz simply replied. And with that he turned back to the exposed wiring in the speaker.

Aoba felt the annoyance fizz in his stomach and he could hardly hold back. Goatbed was his utmost favorite singer. Clenching his fists, Aoba said, “Look. There’s a reason why us  _dancers_  pay  _you_  at the end of the night. You’re supposed to be giving us a  _service_. That’s how Glitter works. That’s how clubs work here in Japan. I don’t know where you’re from, but here the dancers have a say in things.”

“Not anymore.” Noiz tugged at some of the wires, before leaning in closer to examine them. “Why don’t you go cry about it to your boss?”

It took every fiber of Aoba’s self control not to kick this kid straight in the back. He clenched his teeth, narrowing his eyes. “Just play one song,” he said tightly, trying to stay calm. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s like 3 minutes.”

Noiz actually looked at him again and his brows furrowed, as if he were considering it. They sat there for a moment, locked in a stalemate, when Noiz finally said,  “Fine. Alright. What are your songs on this list?” Noiz lifted the paper up over his shoulder.

Aoba bit his lip, completely bewildered. Noiz really was going to give it a chance. Aoba loosened up a bit. “My songs are right here,” Aoba said, pointing to his own messy scrawl in blue ink. Noiz nodded, looking up at him again, intense penetrating green eyes leaving Aoba slightly unsettled even in his victory. “That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Aoba replied back, flashing the young man a smile. Noiz glanced over the sheet one more time before crushing it into his pants pocket. “Thanks, Noiz. It means a lot.”

The guy didn’t say anything for a while, too busy working on those wires. Eventually he said, “It’s fine. Like you said, I’m here for the dancers.”

Aoba grinned. Perhaps this little talk had gotten through. Feeling happy Aoba produced the wad of money he had made for the night, grabbing a couple thousand yen. He pushed it in Noiz’s direction. “Here,” Aoba said. “For you.”

Noiz examined the money from over his shoulder for a split second, before taking it. He didn’t say thanks.

Aoba shifted awkwardly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you on Thursday then,” he said after sitting in yet another stagnant silence. Noiz shrugged his shoulders never bothering to say goodbye. 

As soon as Aoba turned away, he rolled his eyes with a long, exasperated sigh. What a fucking brat. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all your support of this fic! Here comes the fourth part of ITSLWS!   
> ꒰⌗´͈ ᵕ ॣ`͈⌗꒱৩

It had been two weeks since Koujaku’s birthday, and he sure didn’t feel 28. He was still cutting hair, hanging out and drinking with the Benishigure guys after work, and meeting new women. No one has talked about what happened at Glitter on his birthday, and he preferred it that way. The less he remembered the better. And he honestly thought he remembered nothing for quite some time; that is until he had the most vivid of dreams.

He could hear the sound the swing sets and gravel crushing underneath tiny shoes as he scooped a little squirming body up into his own small, boyish arms to set the little boy onto one of the swings. It was night for some reason, and the cicadas were still buzzing at their loudest, and if he looked up at the stars he could see Orion’s belt and cloudy swirls of the Milky Way. Granted, he didn’t see stars like this until he moved mainland, six months after he had stopped playing at this park, and he realized that there were more than four or five stars in a night sky. But for now the little boy pointed to sky from his seat on the swing and asked Koujaku to send him to the moon and at that time it seemed logical—if Koujaku could lift him, he certainly could toss him past the atmosphere at least, with the momentum of the swing like a slingshot. But he didn’t cause he knew what a whiny baby his little friend was and how he’d cry about being lonely up there as soon as he realized there were swings and no 10 year-old buddies to send him back down.

The moonlight casted its crescent parlour on the crown of his little friend’s hair, a sharp blue he couldn’t describe as cerulean or turquoise or even azure, a color so vivid it reminded him of the endless depths of a Caribbean ocean on a warm day and thought to himself that’d be impossible to get shade like this with just hair dye alone. The little boy cried and protested—he wanted Koujaku to push, to send him heaven-bound, and he replied back that he’s not strong enough to send an angel back home.

Koujaku woke with as start, halfway through mumbling the name, “Aoba.”

Aoba. He said it again, as he roused himself to full consciousness—it had been a while since he had actually spoken that name out loud and it gave him an odd mélange of emotions both melancholy and warm. He held onto that feeling for a moment, letting it fill through his chest.

There were only a few things that gave him this feeling—the woody scent of sandalwood; the red lacquer hairpin he kept on his desk; the fleeting and momentary memories he had of his childhood friend, his very best friend, Seragaki Aoba. He could never get the same feeling on his own. It came along every once in a while in dream—and that irked him. Sure, if he forced himself, he could dig up cloudy images or conversations, equivocal blotches of memories where time had gotten her fingerprints all over the glass.

But in a dream, suddenly he could recall certain memories, memories he would have rendered permanently damaged—his dreams always got the details right, the jacket he wore or the pitch of his voice. There was no fog, no patch ups.

If only he could conjure them on his own.

It wasn’t everyday that he had dreams about Aoba, but did happen sometimes. Especially now that he was back here on the island where he grew up. He used to wake up wondering where it came from, why his mind chose to regurgitate those images during his sleep. He hadn’t seen Aoba in at least a decade—he was certainly grown now—and ten years was a lot of time to come up with new memories. Pleasant and unpleasant but new. And yet, despite all experiences he had, out of all the people he had met, his mind chose to linger on one. Not that he resented it. It was just weird.

He accepted it at first as his mind’s concoction of memories and fantasies, just the weird shit his head like to produce after he had gone out drinking. But he still asked the Benishigure guys that week if their dreams were stranger when they were drunk too and after a looping conversation about weird dreams, and then wet dreams, and back to weird dreams, they all unanimously agreed that their drunken dreams had some kind of mystical meaning.

“They say when you have a dream about someone, they’re dreaming about you too,” one of the guys said, as if this were scientific fact.

“It’s true,” another piped up. “Miki-chan always says she thinks about me and then that same night I have a dream about her!”

“I think you’re always dreaming about her,” a third member said back, and Koujaku had enough. 

Mystical meaning. What the hell was Koujaku supposed to do with that?

He spent the next few days pondering it, wondering why now, why Aoba. He came to the conclusion that his dream was not inspired by anything mystical in any which way shape or form. In fact, it was the farthest thing from mystical. He was able to trace it back to the dancer at the club that night—and mostly his hair. He determined that that was why Aoba had been on his mind. He’d been subconsciously stewing about since the weekend. It was always strange seeing someone who could potentially be the adult version of a childhood friend—that was what Koujaku wrote it off as plain and simple.

He let himself look at the one photo of Aoba that he had—a Polaroid picture that was old and thick with the left corner fuzzed and missing from years of being dog-eared again and again.His mother had a whole album of them somewhere, photos just like these (well granted they weren’t polaroid’s once the short-lived trend of owning vintage polaroid cameras became blasé among him and his classmates), with his own boyish visage grinning at the camera as he held Aoba’s chubby puff of a baby body close to him. He wondered if they were still around, somewhere in the remains of their house—logically they had to be somewhere. Koujaku just imagined them being mysteriously destroyed somehow, as if the death of person meant the death of their items too. 

Three days later, he had another dream about Aoba. Another completely un-mystical dream. Instead, Koujaku was just watching fingers run through his hair—they were female, not his own—stroking little boy’s locks first with a brush, working out the tangles, then taking it and braiding it all the way down to the curve of his small back.

Koujaku wanted to reach out and touch too, take over at some point and braid his glossy hair in a more elaborate plait—he had just done one for a woman’s wedding and it turned out gorgeous. But his body was locked still in his seat on the sofa with Aoba sitting between the woman’s legs uncharacteristically quiet. He told his body to reach forward, but nothing happened and even in his dream he knew this was something called being “metal-bound” and he was either forced to wake up or sit still and just watch. 

He ended up waking when Aoba turned around, looking at him with those big eyes that Koujaku remembered being a kaleidoscope of amber shades though he was pretty sure they were just hazel.

He was just shocked from the dream with a sharp breath that sucked the air from his lungs. And there was that feeling again, that twisted mix that he couldn’t decide if it made him sad or comforted. All he knew was that he didn’t like it.

From there the routine was the same, just this time he felt a little bit more like 28. He started actually telling his dates he was one year older—he wouldn’t tell them how much older but they really didn’t seem to mind. Cutting hair was still the same and business was thriving as usual. Apparently, there was a rumor going around that Koujaku’s salon had a special that he was giving out free kisses after a cut-and-color for a week. Before he knew it, the Benishigure guys were all joking that at least half of the island’s female population was in sudden of a dye-job. It sure looked like it, with the lines crowding outside his door. Of course, Koujaku couldn’t turn down this kind of publicity.

So he was surprised, to say the least when he received a notice from his bank. Strange. That got him to get up from his seat, much to his lady friends’ dismay, and politely excuse himself to step off to the side from their dinner. The message was daunting, excessively verbose, but basically he read that his coil had been charged a rather hefty fee and the bank assumed the account had been breached. His coil was still on his wrist meaning a) he’d been hacked or; b) he must have bought something astronomical (4,000,000 yen astronomical) in the past fifteen days. Since he hadn’t received anything worth that much lately, his coil’s charge history was the next best place to check. And sure enough it was there, buried between charges for his last nine or ten meals and a run to the local beauty supply shop.

But what caught his eye wasn’t the number—though it did make his stomach tighten seeing it there himself; the place where the charge was recorded was what completely turned his appetite.

Glitter. On his drunken birthday night, he apparently picked up not only the tab for all of Benishigure but the entire damn club too. It was troubling enough for him to call; when he didn’t get an answer—granted it was a Tuesday night—he decided to make his way down there after work the next day. If they still had the tabs on file, perhaps they also had an explanation.

The south side of Midorijima was much quieter during the week. Most people called it the ‘neon’ district because the intricate patchwork of neon billboards and shop signs that kept the streets aflame at night—but during this time of the week it’s perpetual luminosity had dulled to a mere flickering glow with the average barhopping crowd either in school or at work.

Koujaku waved at the occasional passerby who made a point to greet him and even stopping for directions; he could have asked his coil, but the girls clearly enjoyed having something (or rather someone) to distract them from selling cheap vendor’s jewelry. They pointed him in the direction of Glitter—first asking coyly why a man like himself was looking for a club in the afternoon and Koujaku smoothly responding, “Ah, ladies it’s just a simple business matter. You wouldn’t think I’m planning to extend my weekend into Tuesday,” much to their impression and delight.

And they were right. The club itself wasn’t far down the main strip. It loudly and easily presented itself with its silver-lined frosted glass door and very own, imposing neon sign that was surprisingly turned off all together. He stared up at the massive letters, the gaudy entrance, running his fingers over jagged scar on the bridge of his nose. Had here really been here at all? 

He tried the door; it was locked. So he decided to knock. No answer. Maybe there was no one here. It made sense. Why would a club be staffed on a Tuesday afternoon if they weren’t open? He sighed, maybe he’d just call on a Friday, at least when someone would be down here. But as he prepared to turn away, there was a click behind the door and it suddenly opened.

“Oh, I thought I heard a knock,” the man opening the door said. Once he propped it open, he glanced up at Koujaku and smiled. “What can I help you out with?”

Koujaku noted the white teardrop tattoo on his dark skin.

“Uh, I got a huge charge on my bank account and it says it was from here,” Koujaku said. “So I was wondering if I could talk to someone about it.”

The guy pursed his lips and his brows dipped. “Hmm that’s strange. Yeah man, come on in, I can help you out.” He held the door for Koujaku and led him inside. They took a short staircase down—Koujaku didn’t remember this—and ended up on the main floor of the club.

The club itself was much larger than Koujaku remembered, spanning across the huge building that didn’t nearly look quite this size on the street. Even from his faded memories, he could tell the place looked less lively for sure. Koujaku never thought about it before, but it a club really was just a fancy looking bar without the music and lights. The place wasn’t completely dead—on the opposite side of the club, where apparently the stripping acts performed, there were a few dancers hanging around by the poles.

“So what’d you say happened with your bank? Something about a strange charge right?” the guy asked, as they made their way toward the bar.

“Yeah, it was a pretty big charge; like way bigger than what would be normal, I guess,” Koujaku said. The guy let himself behind the booth and motioned Koujaku to take a seat at one of the bar stools. He turned back around, grabbed a keyboard from a drawer, and started up the machine. A translucent digital blue light projected itself from the device. The man tapped the touch screen, getting it to start up—on Koujaku’s end, the computer revealed an inverted image of reports and data.

The guy suddenly glanced around the screen’s projection with strikingly clear green eyes, and he smiled at Koujaku as he offered a small bow. “The name’s Mizuki,” he said. “I’m the bar manager, by the way.”

“Koujaku. My pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you, Koujaku. Let’s see if we can get this thing sorted out.” He started typing something into the keyboard, before opening a new screen. He shifted a little, revealing the tattoos along his neck too, just like the one his cheekbone, but a far more intricate design. “Do you know what day you were here at the bar?” he said and Koujaku’s eyes snapped back up.

“Uh, yeah. Last weekend. On a Friday night. It was my uh, birthday.”

“Oh, happy birthday.” Mizuki smiled before typing something into the computer. “And its was pretty obvious that the purchase was probably made here at the bar, considering we’re the only one’s who take coil charges.” He said that with a smirk, and Koujaku recalled that his stripper was the one responsible for emptying his wallet of cash. “Ummn, lets see…” he chewed his lower lip and glanced up again. “Can I get a ID on the coil?”

“Yeah,” Koujaku said, unlocking it before sliding the bracelet off his wrist and passing it over to Mizuki. Now with two screens open, he set to work. Meanwhile, the sudden start of music caught Koujaku’s attention. It was hardly loud, coming from a dated boom box, but he glanced over his shoulder anyway. The dancers from before were warming up with something; one swayed his hips as he stretched, the other two were dancing and grinding against their respective poles.

Then, he saw him.

Koujaku blinked.

No, that was definitely him, the dancer from his birthday night. There was no mistaking that hair any day. Koujaku twisted around in his seat, watching.

He span on the pole in time with the music, a pretty erotic move even if he was dressed in sweatpants. Then, it hit Koujaku harder than before; he had received a lap dance from a guy. This guy. Who was now in his sweats and his hair pulled up in a ponytail, looking just like any other regular man. Koujaku swiftly turned around; partially because he didn’t want to be caught staring and also, the idea of seeing the male body slink up and down that pole was a haunting reminder of his previous mistake.

“Alright,” Mizuki said, still typing away, “I found the charge underneath your coil name, and…holy shit. 4,850,000 yen?” He looked at him from the side of the coil screen, with a wry smile. “You must have had a very happy birthday.”

Koujaku laughed. “Yeah, I mean it was all pretty happy until I saw that I was broke.” 

“Dude, I get that. I mean I’d be pissed too. Our drinks are good, but not that good.” Mizuki turned off his coil and slid it back in his direction. “Sorry about all the hassle it put you through. One of us bartenders must have made an error or something. We got a new register system and it’s been a rough transition.”

Koujaku nodded. The music from the boom box kept his attention drifting back over to the stages. Sneakers squeaked against the floor, one of them cursed and they all laughed. Koujaku imagined which one of those voices was his; was that how he sounded when he was just talking with his friends? 

He heard that baby voice flit through his mind—that familiar squeaky little giggle he spent years dreaming of.

No. It wasn’t him. 

The screen in front of him suddenly flickered and shut down, leaving Koujaku and Mizuki face to face. He pulled his attention back forward. “Well, here’s what I can do,” Mizuki said. “I’ll refund you in full, for your trouble.”

Koujaku’s eyes widened. “Uh, but I should at least pay for what I bought? I’m sure I have a receipt somewhere in my coil.” He reached forward, grabbing his coil off the bar and sliding it onto his wrist. Before he could power it back on, Mizuki waved it off.

“It’s alright. It’s the least I can do for you, after wiping your bank account the past couple of days.” Koujaku couldn’t help but feel incredibly grateful. Mizuki takes his gratitude with a grin and another wave of the hand—“Really, it’s all good man. We make enough on a Friday, it’s fine.” He pushed away from the bar and Koujaku got up to stand too.

He felt relieved and airy and incredibly surprised at the ease of it all. He was expecting much worse.

That is until he turned around.

His eye immediately connected with the dancer from Saturday again; he had somehow gotten to the top of the pole and was making a slow, graceful decent. His body held it between one of his lean legs, letting himself slide down in a singular motion. Koujaku noted how his hair was all tied up in a messy, half-hearted ponytail that made his fingers itch to smooth it out; and that striking color brought on that same sense of familiarity rushing back to him. Though it was stronger this time, more potent, and the spark that ignited in Koujaku’s brain left him staring.

“Ah, yeah, those are some of our dancers,” Mizuki said and it shocked Koujaku out of his daze. He was suddenly out of the booth and by his side and Koujaku wondered exactly how long had been watching. Not that Mizuki was judging or anything. He leaned an elbow against the bar and said, “They come in and practice during the week like this sometimes.”

Koujaku glanced over at him. “They choreograph their dances?” 

“Eh some stuff. Some of the guys like to have things prepared for their first dance of the night. To get audience’s attention and what not. And, then for theme nights, they’ll sometimes come up with something together. But the stripping, I’m pretty sure that’s ad-libbed.”

Koujaku considered that. He never thought about it before, but he guessed it made sense—strippers had to practice too. 

“You ever come watch them?” Mizuki suddenly asked. As if it were the most normal thing on earth. Koujaku tensed and immediately shook his head.

“No, no, I’ve only come once—it was a fun time don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t for the uh, exotic dancing.” Mizuki raised a brow—he didn’t believe it—but he just shrugged.

“I get that. A lot of people don’t at first. Though, they find themselves enjoying it too second or third time around, even if they’re straight,” Mizuki replied. “Our dancers are good guys. And they keep things lively. They know what they’re doing. ”

Koujaku nodded, running his tongue over his teeth. “I’m sure it’s a good time.”

Meanwhile, his eye was drawn to the blue-haired dancer, who was now completing a few turns around the pole, just by the strength of his arms and legs. Koujaku’s mind flitted to the idea of those toned thighs and calves, flexing as they embraced the pole; he could only imagine how much muscle it took to hold himself so steady, keep his movements so seamless…. not that he wanted to imagine.

He swallowed hard.

They sat there for a moment, watching them dance. They were following a routine of some type, stopping the song, rewinding, playing back to places where they felt they messed up (though Koujaku thought it all looked pretty damn impressive). The guy from the other night was on the second pole, with another guy a couple feet higher up the pole. Together they span, a hypnotic spiral, and Koujaku felt mesmerized.

Perhaps he should ask; Mizuki seemed to know all these guys and was friendly enough…plus, the feeling of vague memory was a smoke screen in his consciousness and even if he just had a name, something to spark his recollection…. perhaps, he’d be able to clear some of this fog. Prove to himself he was just nuts for thinking he knew this guy.

“Uh, that one guy,” Koujaku said, nodding his head over toward the dancers. “The one who’s uh, on the pole right now. With the blue-hair. What’s his name?”

Mizuki glanced at him, and then smiled with a small shrug. “Sorry, man, I can’t give out names for privacy reasons. But he goes by Sly Blue.”

That name rang a bell—his mind had memory of a purring voice saying that name, no visual, just the velveteen softness of hot breath against his skin and that name. Koujaku bit his lip. That was him. It was that dancer for sure. But now… there was only one other person he had ever known with hair that vivid, and while it wasn’t impossible for a doppelganger to exist—if one person had the genetics, there were surely more—Koujaku had trouble believing that such rare beauty came in multiples. At least not on this island. It was too small.

Which meant—Koujaku’s stomach clenched at the thought. “It’s alright. I understand that,” he responded suddenly, eschewing the idea. “They’ve got their private lives too.” 

“Any reason?” Mizuki asked, not accusatory in the slightest, just out of curiosity.

Koujaku tensed. “Uh, no reason. Just…I just,” he sighed. “I recognize him from somewhere and I wanted to see if it was him.” Vague or not, it was all the explanation he needed. It was a common enough reason, nothing to draw attention or cause concern.

“Oh…” Mizuki pursed his lips, thinking. “I dunno, maybe you saw him in a magazine or something. Or, maybe you recognize him from last weekend?”

Koujaku took his suggestion in stride, giving a small shrug though he felt like he had a stone in gut. “Perhaps.”

“Wish I could be more help. I know he usually dances from Thursday through Saturday, so maybe if you come by, you’ll be able to ask him,” Mizuki suggested. “Or you could always ask him now, if you want.”

Koujaku considered it. For a quarter of a second but his logic spoke up: Wouldn’t that be awkward? Some random guy claiming he recognized him and wants to reconnect after time lost; no that was creepy.

Koujaku shook his head quickly, dismissing his interest as a frivolous thought. “It’s alright. He looks busy. I bet it’ll come to me as soon as I get home,” he said and Mizuki gave him one last look—you sure—before deciding to let it go.

Koujaku walked the long way home, deciding he needed the fresh air. When he got home, his sparrow Beni, needed feeding and so did he; he prepared them both dinner (his own complete with a bottle of whiskey) and for the first time in at least a month, he turned on his television. He sat on his floor and after a few drinks of the expensive whiskey (one of the pluckier girls he’d been with had given him), he decided to crash on the sofa, his face buried in the plush, crimson seat cushion that still smelled of a woman’s perfume.

And yet, all he dreamt of was blue.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAHH ITS BEEN SO LONG~
> 
> but i promise im picking up this story again!! ITSLWS is back from the dead muahaha *lightening strikes in the background*
> 
> Please enjoy~ (๑°꒵°๑)･*♡

At this point, Aoba could care less that he was half-naked.

He stormed down Glitter’s back hallway with vicious conviction as soon as the club closed its doors, ignoring the other dancers’ concerned looks as he marched straight for the staircase backstage.

Damn that shitty pierced, German teenager with his terrible taste in music and disturbing sense of humor. Damn him.

Aoba stomped his way up the steps—he was making a little more noise than what was probably necessary, but he wanted that kid to know exactly what was coming for him—making his way to the very top where the DJ resided. The booth itself was surprisingly lackluster. From the dance floor, the platform seemed to levitate over the crowd. But in reality it was just a stupid, suspended box behind that imitation wood door where tonight’s DJ was holed up probably snickering away in his perceived victory. 

No. Aoba was not letting him win that easily. 

His fist cracked into the door with cold and uncompromising command. The hollow sound resonated through the door with each pound of his fist, the doorknob rattling underneath the tremor. No response. Aoba gritted his teeth, furiously knocking some more. There was no way he left yet; the dancers still had their nightly gratitudes to pay over, and Aoba got that sense that he was far from the type to leave that much cash on the table like that. 

But after three minutes and no reply, his frustration began to boil over. With relentless speed, he continued smacking the door, raising his voice to holler, “I know you’re in there! We need to talk!” He must have been so busy banging that he didn’t even notice the sound of footsteps from inside; but just as he raised his slightly sore fist for another whack, the door snapped open.

“You rang?” Noiz quirked a pierced brow, giving Aoba’s attire a quick—but obvious—up down.

Aoba’s hand was suspended near his head, arm muscles still ready to spring. Feeling somewhat stupid, he anticlimactically lowered it down to his side (though, for a split second he did contemplate letting it collide with the teen’s face). To compensate, he immediately straightened his stance and narrowed his gaze to a frosty glare.

“You shouldn’t be surprised that I am up here.” Aoba’s voice sliced through the space between them. “You know exactly what you did.” 

Noiz propped himself against the doorframe, crossing his arms one by one over his chest. “Actually no. Please do explain.” His care free smirk and vibrant green eyes glinted with the prospect of a challenge.

It sent a surge of anger through Aoba—he couldn’t decide if the apparent amusement quirking at the corners of his lips or that feigned concerned tone was worse. Fingernails digging into his palms of his hands, Aoba said, “Don’t act like you didn’t change my music at the last second for your own sick pleasure.” Noiz tilted his head and squinted, as if he were having difficulties remembering. “You know exactly what I am talking about. You left me standing there on stage completely confused. I looked like an idiot.”

Suddenly, Noiz straightened and his expression slipped back to his usual apethy—a child bored with his own game. “No, sorry. I don’t recall.” The kid took a step backward and tried to slam the door shut.

It bounced back open, Aoba’s faux leather boot intersecting its path (for a pair of stripper boots they were actually quite sturdy). “Why did you do that?” Aoba fired off, not relenting for even a split second. “You said you’d play the original versions of my requested songs. I thought we had an agreement.”

Noiz’s expression went stony and he said, icily, “Well, I thought it over and the agreement sucked.” His fingers clutching at the door’s edge, readying themselves to force it back shut—Aoba noted that they were wrapped in bandages from the palm all the way down to the knuckle, and he wondered if he went around slamming doors often.

“You can’t just decide that it sucked. You played everyone else’s requests.”

“Well, their requests didn’t suck as much.”

Aoba prickled. “You specifically targeted me!” He jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction, spitting, “You fucking ruined my performance. I had a fucking client.”

Deep breath. He needed to remember to keep his cool—there was nothing scarier to a teen than a calm, collected adult. Not that he looked very calm or collected standing here, hollering like a raving lunatic with nothing but a pair of barely-there jean shorts and some heeled combat boots he definitely bought at a cheap sex-shop.   

Noiz however, looked hardly fazed. He simply replied, “Your loss. I don’t see how this has anything to do with me.”

All the calm Aoba had been mustering up in that moment quickly dissolved. He bit back, “I told you that I can’t dance to…to whatever music you play! It’s confusing. It’s stupid. And we’re all tired of hearing it. All of us.” 

“And yet, it sells albums.” Aoba swore Noiz rolled his eyes (though it was pretty damn subtle). “Are you done now? I’m busy.”

Aoba boiled. With a look that could grind through concrete, he hissed, “You are intolerable.”

Noiz shrugged. “So I’ve heard.” 

“It’s one damn song.”

“One song I prefer not to hear.” Noiz turned around and headed back into the DJ booth, forgetting both the door and Aoba behind him. “If you’re really a dancer,” he continued over his shoulder as he flopped into a rolling chair he must have kept inside of there all this time, “You’ll figure it out sooner or later. If you need to practice, you’re welcome to buy my album.”

Aoba couldn’t believe it. He was being dismissed.

Part of him wanted to plow into the room and grab that kid by his skinny neck—but, he found that his body preferred to stand here instead, shaking. Fed up, he finally gathered the nerve to reach into his jean pocket and produce his lump of cash for the night. 

“Then, don’t expect to get paid by us dancers for very much longer,” Aoba said back, yanking a crinkled 100-yen bill from the wad. Noiz spun around in the chair, his expression visibly darkening as he watched Aoba toss the bill into the room with a flick of his wrist. He sent it fluttering in the air before it swept lamely onto the floor. Feeling victorious, he added with a venomous glare, “Remember, you are here to serve us.” 

He wasn’t sure what Noiz’s reaction was.

He had already turned around and was headed toward the stairs. But before he went, he called over his shoulder, “Enjoy your tip, asshole!”

He had never heard Noiz laugh before this. And he decided that nothing made him angrier.

—-

For the next month, Koujaku’s dreams came in a flashing sequence of oceanic blues and greens. At first, he could make nothing of them, beyond the tubular colors and the faint resonating of his pulse throbbing through his veins, reminiscent of a bass-heavy backdrop. He’d wake up each time with a gasp, inexplicably and unbearably hot, the sheets sweat-soaked and tossed on one side of the bed or another.  Part of him wondered if he was dreaming about drowning or something (that was pretty normal right?) though, he never really knew he was this afraid of water before…and by the third identical dream in four days, he feared that he was either developing a phobia or was witnessing a dark omen.

The next dream was far more telling. There were clearly bodies, sweat, a voice cutting through the vacuum of silence in some gibberish language Koujaku could only understand as soft and delightful. He woke up still feeling hot, but this time he felt this unique sense of peace as he blinked away the sleep, staring at the ceiling long enough to recognize the soft warmth of a woman’s body beside him bringing him back to reality. 

That same peace visited him again a fifth time, much later that month. The colors were brighter, harsh lines cutting through the swirling darkness and in flashes he could make out bare skin. He stared at the tell tale curves of that body, the shoulder, the spine, the dip between two plump cheeks and smooth thighs. He swallowed hard, making out the gleam off of a large metal pole; that body took long strides, gripping the pole between elegant fingers, drumming them over its shape again and again.

In the next flash, there were the features of a lovely face. It was closer to him than ever before, looking down at him from some pedestal. It was that same sweet voice as before speaking to him, saying his name. The sound of his own heart palpitating was distant as if playing through a sound system overhead—and yet, he could feel it shudder through his chest each time he caught a glimpse of that nose, those lips, long lashes framing enigmatic eyes in a cerulean blue.

The next time he had that dream it wasn’t the same. This dream was hot, impatient, thrashing him from image to image in a blur of light, color, and sensation. He was perturbingly aware of every nerve ending in his body, buzzing to their very tips with every movement.

Up. Down. The pace was steady yet hungry, again and again, evoking a groan to churn low in his belly, his toes to curl. His hands reached and clutched, palms smoothing over sultry warmth, and eventually clutching and squeezing in response to the needy urgency starting to coil in his groin. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the hazy glaze that had some point had settled over his eyes. Determined, he squeezed them shut, trying to will his senses to provide more than their current offering. His imagination was running wild. Was she beautiful? Were her breasts perky and her thighs soft against the lean muscle of his own legs? He tried picturing a blonde—a beautiful, voluptuous blonde.

The sensation continued, picking up in pace and sending a crackle throughout his entire nervous system. It was impossible to keep up with the pace, his own body inexplicably heavy and lethargic, his limbs refusing to move at the mercy of his consciousness. It simply wasn’t fair. 

“Koujaku.”

That voice.

“Is that how you would like it, Koujaku?” That heaviness spread to his chest and clutched at his lungs, heat engulfing him and swallowing him whole. He sucked in a ragged breath. “Is that what you like best? I just want you to feel good.” His heart struggled painfully against his ribs; sensation burst down his groin toward his shaft.

Koujaku’s chest felt tight, his skin clammy. He continued willing his eyes to see and his lungs to breathe with no avail, the rest of his body determined to soak in the pleasure that was hovering above him. There was more of that blue; it was all he could focus on, letting himself get lost in the depth of it.

“I want to make you feel good all the time.” 

Koujaku grunted. His vision speckled. His mouth went dry.

“Will you always be with me too? Will you never leave?” 

That question…it overwhelmed him. He released a few short pants, pushing through the powerful sensation wracking his body. 

There was no way he was drowning before; then, it was solely physical. It wasn’t his entire being, mind, body, spirit, being flooded by the relentless tide. No this was drowning. 

He gasped, wanting nothing more than to answer that question. 

_Aoba._

_Aoba._

_I’ll always be here, Aoba._

_—-_

Koujaku smoked three cigarettes while he got ready for work and another on his way. His heart hadn’t quite gone back to its usual pace, his fingers still feeling numb as if they had been scalded.

He could hardly get through an appointment without his mind wandering back to last night. There was something cruel in the way that it insistently reminded him that he had woken up with sticky boxers like some deprived brat; and worse, that he had gotten that worked up thinking about that one person in particular. Well, two people, but really one…well, he wasn’t quite sure. That was the icing on the cake.  Koujaku didn’t even know who the hell he was dreaming about. 

Koujaku hadn’t seen Aoba since he was at least twelve. Making Aoba seven. And there was no way that Koujaku was imagining this new, grown identity for his childhood best friend all on his own because first off, he wasn’t that creative and secondly, the person he was dreaming of was identical to that stripper he had seen a few weeks ago that only went by Sly Blue, and only indicated any resemblance to that sweet little boy from fifteen years ago with that same, magnificent blue hair.

“Koujaku-san?”

He blinked, his attention suddenly refocusing to the usual florescent lighting and the product-heavy scent of his salon. His client—her name was…Miki, right?—was looking back at him through the mirror with big, concerned eyes. 

“Koujaku-san,” she repeated, “Did you finish?” 

Scissors in one hand, a lock of hair gently held in the other, he glanced back down at his half-finished work and shook his head.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I-I must have gotten a little caught up in looking at your reflection.” In the mirror, the girl’s eyes widened. She ducked her head, blushing. Koujaku felt bad for fibbing but at this point, he figured much of his appeal was his gentle flirting and he figured he should at least provide her money’s worth. Continuing, letting his voice drop low, he said, “I was thinking, maybe we’re going for something a little too modest this time.” 

“Eh? Modest?”

“A plain look just simply won’t do when you have such a pretty face like yours.” 

Her blush deepened. “Koujaku-san…don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. I just think that it only makes sense for a masterpiece to be framed by something beautiful.” Koujaku ran his fingers through her shoulder-length, black hair, taking note of its texture and shine. Her shoulders trembled; she bit her lip. How cute. “Miki-chan, will you allow me to try something more fitting for you?” 

She glanced up. Her eyes sparkled through the mirror’s reflection, her pretty pout pulling into a warm smile. “Yes! Yes, Koujaku-san do as you please! I would be honored.” 

Koujaku smiled back at her, letting his eyes fill with that warmth he’s been told can melt a thousand hearts in a single glance. “Ah, I’m glad.” 

Two hours later, Koujaku was feeling triumphant. Not only had he earned an excited, squealing hug from the young woman, she had left him a hefty tip with her phone number tucked inside the wad of cash. He had to admit it: he had given her the best haircut she probably had ever received in her life (his layering work was as usual, impeccable); the other women queued outside must have agreed. The unanimous gasp was loud enough to be heard inside, followed by excited whispering about their own upcoming transformations.

Riding off the high of it all, Koujaku stepped outside and announced to the crowd, “Tonight I’m bumping back my hours to nine ladies!” The throng buzzed with delight. “Let’s all try our best to get everyone in today.” Of course that was an impossible claim with at least thirty girls outside, but their zeal was intoxicating and he grinned.  

The rest of the day was spent cutting hair. At some point, he found that talking kept his own restless mind at bay, and goodness did he feel bad for each of his clients who eagerly put up with at least an hour each of endless conversation, bouncing topics from the weather to the latest hairstyle trends. After nine clients, over 47,000 yen in tips alone, and six hours of nothing but cutting hair and talking, Koujaku was not only exhausted. His voice withered away to a low, pathetic grumble. 

There was no way he was going bar hopping with Benishigure tonight as planned; not that he really minded. He was fine flopping into bed with some instant dinner and catching up on his daytime soap operas (yes, he was that guy who preferred to watch soap operas over sports, but it was his mother’s favorite thing to do together and even after fifteen years, the storyline was still just as juicy as ever.) He didn’t think of Aoba once, or his dream. He was so occupied that it almost forgot that it happened entirely. 

So when it did hit him again, it hit him hard. Between the fifth and sixth episode there was a sliver of silence; and of course, instead of his mind thinking about something normal and healthy like the lead actress’ sexy little waist, his mind conveniently flicked back to the image of that stripper. No prompt. No warning. Just tousled blue hair spilling over toned shoulders as he exerted himself riding what Koujaku presumed to be his own cock, whimpering, “Yes, yes, oh fuck yes.”

Koujaku’s body twitched, interested. It took him literally thinking about rotten celery and old feet before he could rip his mind from the thought.

And anyway, that wasn’t quite how the dream went. It wasn’t that graphic or lewd, and there was certainly no cursing…though, the riding definitely happened. That was real…. Not that it really mattered honestly. It was just a weird dream. A complete figment of his obviously diluted imagination. Nothing more. 

Though, Koujaku was sure he remembered the stripper’s face entirely wrong. There was something off about the shape of his lips, or was it his eyes…he pondered so much that his mind began pulling new questions—and before he really was one hundred percent cognizant of what he was doing, he had powered on his coil and was typing out S-l-y B-l-u-e into the internet search mechanism. A quarter of a second later, Koujaku had over 1 million and three hundred thousand hits for the name Sly Blue.

He stopped himself just looking at the links. He wasn’t going to click them. He just wanted to see what would come up. Not that it was really surprising. The first link led to Glitter’s webpage. The second one down was another website with profiles of different male strippers in Midorijima. It wasn’t until the fifth or sixth link that a modeling agency’s name came up. Modeling? Curious, he hovered over the link. 

No.

This wasn’t how he was spending his Tuesday night, internet stalking some stripper he met once upon a drunken night. No way.

What type of modeling was Sly doing? Was he really a model? Certainly not a clothing model, Koujaku thought peevishly once he had already clicked the link and a slue of gravure photos popped up. Very little clothes—in fact most of said clothing was either falling off his body on in a heap in the corner of the picture like a lump of dirty laundry. The first photo was taken inside of a traditional home on the tatami mats, yukata slipping off his shoulders. Koujaku stared at probably far too long, but he was just making certain that it was the same stripper from his memory. Obviously, it was Sly Blue. Though, he looked a little younger here, his features softer and more rounded; the hair was a dead-give away, the same shade of unmistakable blue. And those eyes, sultry and hazel, were just as dangerous as they were inviting. Koujaku swallowed hard.

Well, he always had a thing for yukata play… 

With that thought he immediately backed out of the page. It took him a minute to recover, scolding the obnoxious side of his brain for its lack of unhelpful comments, but he didn’t stop looking at the links. In fact, he kept digging, finding the oldest post with the name; it was from over three years back and was another modeling gig—the photographer raved about “Sly” in the comments, claiming that he was destined to be one of the hottest faces in Midorijima’s gravure scene.

Koujaku scrolled. Was Sly still doing these nudie photos today? Koujaku went back and searched “Sly Blue gravure” hoping to find something more recent—nothing. He tried a different search, changing his wording. Still nothing.

He pushed a sigh through his teeth. Whatever itch he had that made him do this was far from scratched; in fact, his own curiosity was already teaming alongside his stubborn streak, bullying his logic out of even questioning what he was actually doing. At this point, he needed some type of information to satiate himself. A birthdate. An email address. Anything.

Koujaku went back to his original search of Sly Blue; at least here he had the starting blocks of some basic information. He could work with this. After an hour of reading web profiles on strip club pages and looking at old photographs, he had an idea. Feeling bold, he tested out the name Aoba Seragaki in the search engine. At first it was nothing promising. Koujaku’s stomach tightened. Determined, he tried again, hoping to at least get some type of records or something. He bit his lip when all it uncovered was an old chat room conversation from five years ago in what he assumed to be Chinese and a video link. Maybe Aoba really was gone.

Hopeless, Koujaku stared at the video’s link, running his tongue over his teeth. And maybe it was his frustration or his perceived privacy, but he finally gave in after a minute and opened the video. He almost closed it immediately after, but something told him to hold on a second.

The video was being shot in some dance studio with polished hardwood floors and glossy mirrors spanning along the wall perpendicular to the center of the camera’s view. There was no pole in sight—that was the first thing Koujaku noted (much to his own relief) and the whole scene felt very…well, normal. After a few seconds of silence, two young guys stepped forward in front of the camera, assuming positions side by side.

Koujaku’s eyes widened. The one on the left—sweat pants, sneakers, silky strands of long blue hair tied in a messy ponytail with a baseball cap on top. No way. There was no way.

He paused the video, taking a deep breath. He got up, did a pacing lap around his room before settling back at the screen again. Same build. Same features. Same blue hair. Sly Blue was Aoba. Aoba was Sly Blue. Meaning Aoba was still around…

Koujaku pressed his lips together, though not for long. He had no reason to be grinning—for goodness sakes his childhood best friend was indeed a stripper and a nudie model, and probably a lot of other things too—but Koujaku couldn’t help it. Aoba Seragaki was alive. And well. And smiling.  

Aoba. Aoba. That was really Aoba.

Hitting play again, the two guys did a count off (Koujaku smiled slightly at the boyish pitch of their voices) and then, their music started.

Koujaku didn’t know whether to laugh. Or cry. Or punch himself in the face for being such an oblivious moron for all these years. Cause here Aoba was on the internet all along, an adult, dancing to a poppy-hip-hop beat with that same cheeky grin he wore that first time he thought trumped Koujaku in a game of wits (granted Koujaku was going easy on the boy, but he’d never admit that). 

Koujaku tensed. His fingers twitched.

He found him. He had found Aoba Seragaki. 


	6. Chapter 6

Aoba was well aware that every other Friday night was the cursed glitter night. Meaning that every other Saturday night, he and all the other dancers on staff were required to get bare-naked backstage and cover themselves in a goopy mess of sparkly, silver, glitter. Someone at some point must have thought this was sexy—probably someone who was fairly dim and suffering from serious perversions.

Either way, the rules were the rules and Aoba like the other dancers figured that one night of public humiliation and shimmering slime was worth Glitter’s fair paychecks and their comparatively less disturbing clientele.

Aoba was just getting finished with his own personal art project. He used the majority of the glitter from his collarbones down to his nipples and then trailing down his back toward the clefts of his ass letting the stuff drip down his body in lazy, sparkling trails. He was going for fresh from a magical sex shower of shimmery glitter water, but as he observed himself in the mirror one last time before his call to stage deck, he decided that he looked like the sparkly goop remains of melting soft-serve instead. 

He sighed. The other dancers even went as far as to leave a large, glittery handprint on his bare ass. They giggled and grinned at their cheeky craft. Laugh on, Aoba thought with a huff, his ass still sore from the actual smack that left the print in the first place. But there was no time to bother washing it off. He was performing after two more songs. And the last time he was late to stage deck he not only tripped on his way out, but he also realized halfway through his performance that the fly to his jeans was still wide open (sure they were short lived, but Aoba hated giving a pre-show to an undeserving audience). Arriving to the stage on time was very, very important. 

And anyway, he had his leather shorts on for now. Sure, they were quick to come off during his usual solo pole set, but it was better than marching out on stage with a gleaming handprint on his ass, greeting his audience. 

There was a call outside the dressing room and down the hall for Sly Blue.  One last look in the mirror. You’re fine, Aoba told himself as he inspected his body for any final imperfections. Clean complexion, rosy lips, an iffy glitter job he was willing to overlook in favor of his signature blue hair. He gave it one last tousle. Sexy. Okay, he was ready. 

The back hallway behind the stage was thundering with the pulse of the club’s music, the sound getting increasingly louder the closer Aoba got. Another one of the guys was being called on stage right now through a booming sound system announcing in the same pre-recorded grandeur, ‘Ladies and Gents welcome onto Glitter’s main stage—‘

The beginning of a song Aoba knew all too well was already starting to build over the announcer’s voice, immediately picking up in speed. The crowd outside buzzed over the sound system, a few hoots and hollers here and there from the most dedicated patrons as the stripper made his way on stage.

Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds before it was Aoba’s turn to get up there. Being on center stage was always the most nerve-wracking.  Not in the obvious sense. From its raised position in the middle of the club, you would think that you could see everything and everyone beneath you in a swirling throng of endless movement. But center stage was not terrifying because of what you could see but rather, what you couldn’t. Between the lights and the sound, the moment you got up there was like staring straight into the brights of a massive SUV in the split second of silence before the impact of the crash; it was knowing that there were over 600 voyeurs closely inspecting your every move, but your pupils were fighting the piercing light that blinded you past the edge of the stage 15 paces in front of you. It was being watched without the pleasure of watching in return. Granted, the sensation only latest a few seconds, however long it took the previous song to fade into the familiarity of your own, and your muscles to decide what they wanted to do with themselves for the next few minutes. And once you had the smooth, hard beam of the pole clutched against your palm, you felt steady. Grounded. Then, it was easy. 

The thought of that initial moment, though, still gave Aoba’s stomach a tight little twist. One minute-thirty seconds. He tightened the laces on the cheap, black plastic ankle boots and adjusted his shorts. One minute-ten.

The song slowed in a mess of electronic sounds. Aoba rolled his eyes. Noiz had made it point lately to incorporate some of his usual dubstep before and in the middle of all of Aoba’s performing songs. It was if he were sending a signal of ‘fuck you and your shitty pop music’ from across the club. And Aoba was reading his message loud and clear. 

At the thirty-second mark, Aoba made his way to the small staircase leading to the main stage. He could hear the current song’s beat begin to slow, and the first traces of Goatbed lyrics beginning to push through the warbling bass solo. Noiz let it linger as long as possible—figures—and at the last possible moment before Aoba’s song was in full swing that same booming announcement boomed through the entire club.

‘Ladies and Gents, welcome onto Glitter’s main stage—‘

He stepped up onto the stage platform, the first impact of the ridiculously bright stage light already piercing his vision. 

‘Midorijima’s best. The one, the only, Sly Blue.’

—

Koujaku came to his senses once it was too late. The big sparkling silver neon sign above the door was just as imposing and gaudy as he remembered. Why was he doing this, why was he doing this?

“Sir.” His eyes refocused to what was in front of him. The bouncer was holding the door open, with a wad of Koujaku’s hard-earned cash still crushed in his big hand. “You’re holding the line, sir.”

Koujaku blinked. Oh yes. The line. There was…a line. He sputtered a lame apology and before he could rationalize what he was doing—what even was he doing—he hurried his way through the doors and down the metallic staircase that rattled with each pump of bass. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, immediately adhering to the conical lights that cut through the darkness, but Glitter was as it had always been. Poles, lights, insatiably loud music.

There was no backing out, even now that he was inside and there was all the evidence he needed to prove that this was a terribly stupid idea. Not only had he lost a chunk of cash off of the cover charge, the block long queue outside was steadily steaming their way down the stairs and through the gaps of the buzzing crowd. And like driftwood, Koujaku wafted along.

He never expected he’d find himself here again, but after four sleepless nights and a disturbingly large number of cigarettes consumed, he figured he was either going to confront Aoba, or poison himself with nicotine first. He really didn’t have a plan—something about storming into the club and demanding for Sly Blue seemed a hell of a lot easier at 2 a.m. on a restless night than now where everything and everyone was moving so quickly around him. 

He found himself washed away at the bar among the other patrons who were desperate to catch the bar tender’s attention. Sure enough, the same guy from all those weeks ago was manning the whole right half by himself, pouring drinks as quickly as the grabby hands reached for them. Mizuki. He grinned once Koujaku had edged his way a little closer, saying over the loud music, “Hey, a familiar face.”

“Ah, hello.”

“Surprised to see you here again. Thought this isn’t your scene.” Mizuki raised a brow, the corners of his lips taking on a cheeky quirk. 

“Ah, I just um…needed a drink. Figured I stop by,” Koujaku explained, poorly. Mizuki’s expression blossomed into a grin and he had a good chuckle once he began making Koujaku’s request. 

“I’m glad you did,” Mizuki said, sliding over a tall glass of dark liquor. “Makes me feel good to know you still trust us after we put you in the poorhouse last month.”

“Well, after your compensation, I couldn’t hold it against you.” Koujaku smiled, offering over his wrist to have his coil scanned. “It was very generous.” 

“No problem, man.” The bar-crowd behind him shifted impatiently; once the charge went through, he gathered himself and went to stand. “He’s working you know.” Koujaku stiffened. Mizuki—whether he was oblivious or simply determined—tilted his head toward the strip side of the club continuing, “Sly Blue. He just got done with his stage set and is probably on the floor now. If you want to see him, that is.” 

Koujaku felt a lump knot in his throat, caught. “Um…uh, thank you.” 

“Sure thing. Have a good rest of your night.”

“Same for yourself.”

From the bar, it was even more difficult to make his way into the club. The lights were at times blinding, making it difficult to push his way past the packed in parties of people who were either trying to find themselves a booth or a place on the dance floor. The advantage of being tall helped him locate a booth in the strip section of the club…it was the only place he could find, plus it was convenient enough for what he was here for. But as he was making his way through, he experienced the disadvantage of his height. Because across the room on one of the small booth stages, he saw the very person he was searching for and yet trying to avoid.

Aoba was slinking around on the small stage, as good as naked in those skin-tight leather shorts that clung to every dip and curve of his lower body. He gave a little wave to his audience that was concealed inside the booth’s walls, before dipping down and out of sight.

Koujaku took a long, bitter swig from his drink. Well, it’s now or never, he would have said to himself in any other situation—but there was something about trudging over there and interrupting the performance that was well, as appealing as a death march. So instead, he burrowed himself into one of the nearby booths and nursed his drink, and bullied himself for his own stupidity. It wasn’t until he was eye to eye with a pair of black platform boots that he realized he was being spoken to.

“Hey there. You look a little lonely.”

Koujaku glanced up and nearly spat bourbon and coke all over the dancer in front of him. There he was. Pretty face, extraordinary hair, toned body sparkling like a million diamonds underneath the electric blue glow of the spotlights. 

“I…uh…I.” Years of flirting went out the window. In place of words, he took another quick drink, finally managing to say, “Not lonely really. I just got here.” 

“Oh, did you?” Aoba licked his lips. Even in the darkness, Koujaku could tell they were pink and probably, irresistibly soft. “Have you liked what you’ve seen so far?” His eyes, curious, took a quick glance up the lines of his body starting at his shoes and working up to his firm chest that was dripping with glitter. Something within himself felt the need to seek out a nipple—they were perky and pink. Oh god. Why did he look there? 

“Y-Yes, you’re very talented. How long have you danced professionally?” he sputtered. He didn’t know what else to say. Aoba gave him a look like he had just sprouted natto from his ears, and he wondered if the beginnings of a blush could be seen in this darkness.

Aoba slinked over, getting onto his hands and knees to look Koujaku straight on. And goodness, all those pictures online could never compare to the mesmerizing look that filled those hazel eyes and had those lips rosy and ready to be kissed. Koujaku wondered what they tasted like—probably honey. He ripped himself from the thought—no, no, that was not okay, not now, not ever. The alcohol must have been starting to kick in.

“Are you trying to flatter me?” Aoba asked with a flirtatious raise of his brows. He was talking over the music’s pulse, but it felt like a murmur.

“N-No, erm yes. Yes I am.” Koujaku glanced down at his drink. Aoba faltered, puzzled, but then he smiled. Koujaku bit his lip. God, it was really him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Aoba beat him to the punch. 

“Ah, well you’re doing—” The music changed pace, taking Aoba’s words along with it.

Koujaku said back, “Huh? I’m doing what?”

Aoba’s brows pushed together ever so slightly and leaned in a little closer, raising his voice to clarify. “You’re doing a good job. I’m flattered.” He backed away a little, and by the time he was up on his feet, he had already slipped back into that sultry expression. “How about I show you some more, since you like it so much?”

“I, uh.” Those hips, delightful in their own way, began to follow the bead. Koujaku noted that Aoba had undone the top button of his shorts at some point, offering the first taste of smooth groin and coquettishly pale skin. Even the glitter was against him, winking at him all the way past the hemline, uncharted trails that were desperate for exploration.

Aoba glanced down at him, teasing his lower lip with a nip. Koujaku shuddered.

There was no way any talking or confessing was going to happen at this rate. Koujaku needed silence. Space. Something away from the lights and the crowd, and the relentless speakers with their floor-rattling sound. 

“Do you want to, uh, get a private room?” Koujaku blurted out. He wasn’t even sure if that was what it was called.

Aoba’s eyes widened, interest flickering in his expression. “A private room?” he purred. Koujaku nodded lamely. He probably looked so pathetic. 

But the look in Aoba’s eyes was entirely worth it. Koujaku decided he could spend a whole century staring into them, hoping to see the reflections of years untold within them. Before he could scold himself for even thinking such a thought about his very much male childhood friend, Aoba was off the stage and grasping his hand in a good firm grip. Holding hands. They had done this so long ago, the same two hands, intertwined. Nostalgia hit Koujaku like a tempest, and now more than ever he was aware of his situation.

Well, this was it. 

At this point, questions were scorching the tip his tongue and anticipation knotted in his throat. It took everything he had to hold back until they made it to the entertainment rooms, silently following behind with the fair distraction of Aoba’s hips switching their way through the crowd. Once they had reached one of the doors, Koujaku did not even have time to comment, before Aoba dragged them both into the booth and shut the door.

“I’m glad I got you alone,” he said, his expression melting in the sultry glow of the booth light. His voice was louder and clearer than ever without the club’s distractions surrounding them. It snatched Koujaku’s breath, nervousness filling through his lungs and working its way throughout his entire body. Flirtatious hands went to Koujaku’s arms, guiding him to sit, and for the first time (well, in his conscious memory) they were so deliciously close. Aoba’s breathing was warm and sweet as he followed him into his lap, draping his arms over Koujaku’s shoulders. When was the last time Koujaku ever felt this nervous? He couldn’t even bring himself to look up at him, his heart rattling against his ribs, mind darting between thoughts in a dizzying whir.

“I want you, all to myself,” Aoba continued, fingers moving a little closer to gently touch his face. “Have you wanted me too?” Yes, Koujaku thought. More than anything. If only Aoba knew how many of his thoughts he had possessed, how many dreams he inhabited. Aoba dipped in, letting his voice whisper against Koujaku’s neck. “How badly have you wanted me?”

Koujaku must have missed it when they walked in, but somewhere in the room a stereo started playing a song with a sugary, slow beat. Hips began to roll. He grunted with surprise, glancing up. Who even started that?

But in a moment, it really didn’t matter. He was suddenly so aware of Aoba’s firm thighs, the globes of ass that were delightful and full against his groin. His body writhed against him in time with the music, glitter dusted muscles moving with sensual precision. Koujaku’s cock stirred, his hands moving at their own accord to touch the sensual curve of Aoba’s back that he suddenly found so incredibly sexy.

Dazed, he breathed, “Do you remember me?”  

Aoba smirked. “Hmm…do I remember you?” Aoba pulled back ever so slightly to nip at the lobe of his ear. “The question is, do you remember me?”

“Of course I do,” Koujaku murmured back. “I could never forget you.”

“Ah, really?” Aoba moved a little further away, giving himself more space to move his body. Koujaku watched that face, those eyes, his lips open in a gasp that was pretty fake but still enticing enough. It was probably better when it was real.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you here last month. On my birthday…I guess this was, ah fate.” 

Aoba blinked, his expression brightened. Koujaku felt himself smiling—please, please remember. “Oh. Oh yes! You’re the birthday boy,” Aoba exclaimed. Koujaku bit his lip. Of course he didn't remember him. To Aoba, he was just another client, another lap dance. “Do you feel older,” he wondered with a teasing purr in his voice. Koujaku shook his head, trying to bring himself to think. But it only got harder as Aoba’s hands pulled back and began to roam all over his naked torso. Fingers carded through his gorgeous hair letting it cascade down his shoulders, and Koujaku was so tempted to reach out and touch it himself, indulge in it.

“It’s no different,” Koujaku replied mildly. 

“Oh really?” Delicate stroked a slender neck, moving over shoulders, and finally down a smooth chest. “Did you get anything good from your friends? Maybe a lover?” 

Koujaku tried to say something, anything. But the wind escaped him carrying his words along with it as Aoba began to pinch his rosy nipples, teasing them between his forefinger and thumb. He tempted Koujaku to touch, leaning in a little closer so they were right in front of his face, flushed and fully erect. “Ah-um..." Aoba arched into him—oh fuck, the bud it was so close to his lips now, he didn’t even have to move to…

Before he could stop himself, he moved forward taking the nipple between his lips. “Ah—“ the whisper soft exhale sent a shiver down Koujaku’s thighs. He glanced up. Aoba looked so pretty like that. So sexy. He just wanted to touch more, kiss more, have more. He began to tease it with his teeth, playing gently with the hardening bud until he pulled away with a moist pop. Koujaku came back and kissed the nipple, once, twice, wondering if it felt as good as it looked. He met Aoba’s eyes and smiled, and Aoba smiled right back. 

But it wasn’t an actual smile. His lips were certainly curved and his expression was warm and sultry as ever, but there wasn’t ounce of emotion in those eyes. They had glazed over, lost their shine. Like he had done this a million times before.

“A-Aoba.” 

The thin chest above him stopped moving, eyes widening. Just for a second, Koujaku took it in, waiting. Then, Aoba blinked and just as quickly as his expression faltered, he recovered with, “A-ah, you have the wrong name. I’m Sly Blue, babe.” He buried himself in Koujaku’s shoulder, eagerly kissing at his neck.

Koujaku though was persistent. He moved his grasp up from the enticing curve of Aoba’s waist, holding him by his arms to lift him away. “Aoba. Please stop. Wait.” 

"Where are you getting that name from?" 

Koujaku bit his lip. “I know you’re not supposed to tell anyone, but don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember, Aoba?”

Aoba’s features twisted with annoyance, narrowing his eyes, voice sharp as he said, “Don’t call me that.” 

“Please.” He was growing desperate. The touch of him…he refused to let go, tightening his grip. Aoba felt light in his grip, dazed with confusion, maybe fear. Koujaku swallowed, trying to lower his voice, the tremors still rising to the surface. “Aoba, please listen to me.” 

When he finally managed to catch up to the situation, he blinked and directed his gaze into Koujaku’s, more intense than he had ever seen them before. It was intoxicating.

Before he could say anything else—before he could even bring himself to take another breath—Aoba wrenched himself out of his grip and quickly twisted out of the way. He tumbled off his lap and onto the floor with a thud. Koujaku cursed, going to pick him up. Aoba jerked away. 

“How do you know my name?” he hissed, glaring up at him, venomous. Koujaku searched for words. Aoba’s voice sharpened. “Tell me where you found my name.”

“I-I… I know you. I know you from a long time ago.” 

“Cut the bullshit, dude.”

Koujaku flinched. “Aoba, I-I really know you. Don’t you remember all those years ago? When you were a little boy? There was someone you played with. Someone who was your friend—“

“Look asshole, stalking is creepy and you need to quit it,” he said, voice trembling. “Now. Whatever diluted fantasy you have about me is over, okay? You don’t know me.”

“Don’t you remember?” Koujaku insisted. “I used to come over. I used to babysit for your grandma. Tae-san! And your twin? Sei-san. He spent most of the time in the hospital but I remember him. You were so close…”

Aoba’s expression frosted over, narrowing his eyes to slits. “How the hell…do you know about them?” he hissed. Then, newfound anger lit in his eyes. “Don’t you dare stalk my family!”

“A-Aoba please. Please try to remember. Remember Koujaku? Don’t you remember me?”

“Get out! Get out!” he screamed, eyes wild. He struggled onto his hands and knees. “Get out or I’m calling security, you freaking pervert!” Koujaku stared at him, unable to speak. “Get out!”

Both of them scrambled onto their feet, Aoba staggering and chest heaving with each pulse of fury, shame tearing through Koujaku’s gut.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving alright?” Koujaku said, raising his hands in defeat. “I’ll go. But please…take this.” He stopped, reaching into his jeans pocket. Aoba didn’t move, glaring at him bitterly. He was shaking. “It’s something I have,” Koujaku continued, pulling out a photo, the old polaroid waxy and bent. “I hope you’ll take the time to believe me, okay? Just-just call the number on the back when you’re ready.” When Aoba refused to take it, he slipped it down on the table by the door.

Outside, everything was just as it was before. Their voices, Koujaku realized, must have been drowned out, ignored in the rush of the crowd. He felt momentarily relieved.  As he moved through the crowd, the flashes of light should have been convicting, the hundreds of faces enough to leave him ashamed. But, in the mass he was able to forget—it didn’t hit him until he made it to the street again, early autumn air picking up the scent of the city on its breeze. Then it hit him all over again. Aoba had no idea, about him. About anything.

The walk back was lonely, incriminating. There was something about Glitter that made it easy to forget. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oah its been so long since I’ve added to this story. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I promise we’ll be getting a little more development in the Kouao department soon. Thank you everyone for sticking with this story and reading it, and A BIG THANK YOU TO ALL WHO HAVE MENTIONED THIS STORY ON THEIR BLOGS OMG THANK YOU!!! IT REALLY MEANS THE WORLD TO ME WHEN YOU GUYS RECOMMEND MY FICS TO OTHERS THANK YOU

Home.

Aoba needed to get home.

The door shut with a snap, and it jolted Aoba back into the throbbing bass, and the sultry lighting, and lingering cigarette smoke all over again. One song merged into another, then another. Aoba just stood there, eyes unfocused, thinking about everything, and yet nothing at all. He couldn’t get that man’s expression out of his mind, the fragility in his eyes as he held Aoba, fingertips charged with both sexuality and reverie. The thought of it was delightful and disturbing all at once.

How long had he been standing there? He wasn’t really all that sure. It wasn’t until his boss and a concerned dancer burst in that he really realized what he was doing, just standing there staring at the wall. Apparently, Aoba’s scream was heard in the next booth over and word spread around the club. When they asked, Aoba bit his lip. He willed a smile. His limbs still shook, goose bumps pricking his skin, anxiety rising up his throat. His explanation was far from spectacular—“Ah, it was just the usual stalker stuff…”—but his boss said he looked pale, and the other dancer nodded in agreement.

“Stalker stuff? That’s no good. I don’t have any room for that kind of behavior here,” their boss said. “Were you able to call security?”

“I didn’t need to,” Aoba replied. “He left on his own.”

“And are you alright?”

“It’s okay. I’m fine. It was just a little scary. It dawned on him then how silly he must have looked, just standing there, looking so destitute over a very run-of-the-mill stalker situation. It happened all the time in strip clubs. An overzealous fan was common. Embarrassed, he quickly thanked them for their concern.

“Go home,” his boss said. “You look sickly.”

“Yeah, Sly-san, you sure you’re all right?”

“Mhm, I’m fine. Just scared me a little,” Aoba said, hoping to brush the moment off, get back to work. He hadn’t meant for his voice to tremble through his ribcage. But it did. And his boss must have heard it because sent him off for the weekend, telling him to rest. As if rest would make the lump in his throat dissolve, or the past hour and a half disappear.

But Aoba agreed, promising that he would indeed, rest. His bones literally ached with the possible danger of that creep actually showing up to his house, and doing god knows what? His mind played out scenarios as his boss dove into a long monologue about their policy on stalkers.

What if that man had been following him home all this time? What if he knew his address? His passcode into the house? Perhaps he knew so much more than he had even expressed, so much more about Aoba’s family, his home. Granny and Sei would be unsafe. It was a wild assumption sure, but this stuff happened nonetheless. Another dancer he knew back at his last job had been targeted by an ex-boyfriend, and robbed blind after his personal information leaked online. Aoba had always been cautious of that risk—in this industry anonymity was the greatest power he, as a dancer, could possibly hold.

Plus, Aoba was a fairly private guy. Posting things on the Internet wasn’t something he did all that often, and having a pseudonym helped a good deal in keeping his work life separate from his real life. Even Granny didn’t figure out about his occasional modeling and strip jobs for years. No one recognized him. No one ever questioned it. But now—

Now his information was out. His name. His family. Everything that ever mattered to him. Sure, some stalkers were harmless; some were lonely, some just wanted sex. But the idea of Granny being robbed or perhaps worse… The thought trembled down his spine, a pang of guilt shocking his nerves numb.

Granted, there was the possibility that the man was telling the truth. Aoba really did have a babysitter named Koujaku when he was younger. And he would admit that they were very close growing up. In retrospect, it was maybe even to the point where Aoba sported small crush on him. But Koujaku had moved back to the mainland when Aoba was still in kindergarten and all but disappeared. How a stalker would figure that out was beyond him.

And yet, the possibility of that man stalking him still felt a little more valid. The likelihood of Koujaku actually being back in Midorijima, and frequenting gay strip clubs was, well, tough to imagine. Aoba usually thought of handsy customers like that as lonely, desperate, maybe a little pathetic. He hated to admit it, but it was true. And Koujaku wasn’t lonely, desperate, or pathetic. Well…at least he hoped he wasn’t. Certainly people changed, but Koujaku—Aoba always thought of him as the kindest and most honest person he knew. There was no way that he became one of these guys.

Aoba’s boss continued lecturing. About what—Aoba wasn’t all that sure. His lungs were growing tight, his fingers beginning to shake, swirling worries consuming every flicker of brainpower that he could offer. Even after his boss and fellow dancer headed off.

Even after he had opened the booth’s door and was hit with the lights, the music and the swirling heat of the crowded dance floor. His senses were weary—stinging eyes, raw throat, lungs fighting to pull oxygen from the hazy air.

It was no different than any other night. He thought his body had just gotten used to Glitter. And yet he found himself overwhelmed, practically choking over the stench of sweat and hard-liquor as he stared out at all the people who were absorbed in their own biddings, too drunk to notice or care about what was happening in the booths right behind them. A stalker, he had to remind himself, was common. It was no different than any other night.

He glanced back over his shoulder into the booth.

The past hour had been capsulized here. The furniture disheveled, lighting sultry and low, overhead speakers still eagerly playing the soundtrack to what was supposed to be his customer’s lap dance. Aoba stared at the mess for a few seconds, but it felt like a while, a mix between humiliation, anger, and lingering fear sending listless energy through his pulse. He considered leaving it this way—but for what, to keep the moment sitting there, stagnant for the rest of the weekend? The custodial staff would surely handle it. But there was something about washing the night’s degradation away with his own hands that felt oddly satisfying. And while he could only bring himself to fix the seat cushion and turn down the music, it felt a little better. At least now, the moment wouldn’t be here waiting for when he returned.

Before he headed out, he took the photo off the table, the weighty thickness of the crinkled polaroid paper giving him an inexplicable chill. It felt genuine. Real. And something about that thought was simply terrifying.

~o~

It was never hard to find Aoba. So it didn’t take long for Mizuki to spot him, pushing through the liquor-buzzed crowd around the bar. He began hollering like a lunatic hoping to catch his attention.

He did. Though, he could tell Aoba contemplating ignoring him for a split second, a mix of slight embarrassment and evident worry darkening his features. But Mizuki had no problem with hopping over the bar to track him down himself, need be necessary. Rumors were already making their way around Glitter, and while the staff’s gossip was usually petty squabbling, the look of urgency in Aoba’s eyes was pretty telling on its own.

“Headed out early?” Mizuki asked once Aoba had gotten in earshot. He glanced at the duffle bag over his shoulder, and his t-shirt and jeans. It wasn’t all that often he saw Aoba out of his work clothes.

“Yeah. I just—just had something happen.” Aoba’s expression was brooding, completely out of the normal. That was troubling. Mizuki usually hated to pry in other people’s business, but there was talk of harassment in the air, and that was something he took seriously.

“What do you mean something happened?” Mizuki asked, brows tightening with concern.

Aoba opened his mouth, hesitated, and finally said, “Look, I have to go.” He tried to push away from the bar, but Mizuki reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. Aoba glanced back at him, amber eyes hard with anxiety.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his expression firm with insistence. “You can’t just leave me with that, and expect me to think things are okay.”

There was a beat of silence. Aoba’s shoulder relaxed ever so slightly underneath Mizuki’s palm, releasing a long sigh. “I just found out some guy is stalking me.” Mizuki tensed, shocked. That explained the scream everyone had been whispering about. “He knows my name, my family. Even has a picture of me from when I was a kid.”

“Shit.”

“He got me alone, requested a lap dance, and just started acting really creepy in the middle of it. I had to threaten him to make him leave.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I just,” Aoba’s gaze drifted down to the bar, lips pressed thin like he was going to be sick. “I’m just a little shaken up. I’m going to try to get home.” With that, moved from the bar.

Mizuki bit his lip, clutching the bar rag in his fist. Finally he said, “Oi.” Aoba twisted back around tightly. “You really think I’m going to let you leave like that?” Aoba sent him a confused look. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you just run off alone when there’s someone stalking you. Fuck that.” Mizuki tossed the rag onto the bar. “Stay right here. Okay? I’m walking you home.”

“Mizuki.”

“If this guy knows that much about you already, then he probably has your schedule. Meaning, he probably knows you’re going to be headed out of here soon. And he’s probably waiting for his opportunity to catch you alone. And I’m not letting that happen.”

“But you—“

“It’s fine. The other bartenders wont miss me that much.” He turned over his shoulder, catching the other bartender’s eye. “Kojima! I gotta head out early. Putting you in charge for the rest of the night. Alright?” The bar tender nodded, assuring Mizuki he’d keep things in order. Mizuki turned back to Aoba. “Okay. Lemme grab my stuff.” He made his way out from behind the bar booth.

“You really don’t have to—“

Mizuki huffed. “Yes I do. Like I said, I’d feel better if I see you off.” He could tell this irritated Aoba—the ever so slight twitch in his brow was enough to tell—but Mizuki didn’t mind being a little stubborn in a situation like this. “Just accept it. I’m not going away.”

Aoba rolled his eyes—how cute—and said, “Fine. Walk me home, prince charming.”

Mizuki grinned a little, one mischievous brow quirking with amusement. “I promise it’ll be the best walk in your life.”

“Oh, shut up.”

~o~

The residential district of the city was almost unnervingly quiet in comparison to downtown. The houses were concrete and old, tipping ever so slightly like a row of napping elderly men. A dog barked in the distance, somewhere a door opened to a laughing little girl—Mizuki would have never guessed Midorijima had a sleepy little pocket like this just outside its rowdy heart center.

To be honest, he was surprised when they ended up here. He never really pinned Aoba to be living in such a, well, family-oriented area. Not that Mizuki ever really thought much about Aoba’s life outside of Glitter. Did he have a family? Kids? Maybe a boyfriend? Mizuki wondered as they walked down the quiet little sidewalk side-by-side, their usual banter unraveling some of Aoba’s nervous edge.

“You sure live far from Glitter,” Mizuki commented with no reason in particular, maybe wondering what brought Aoba out of this cozy little district and into the seediest part of the city in the first place.

“Hey, it was your choice to walk me home,” Aoba said, amicably. Mizuki chuckled. Touché.

“It’s not a problem. I just pictured you living somewhere a little closer to the club. You know—”

“You mean you expected me to not live somewhere so nice.” Aoba glanced at him with smile, knowing he had cornered him. Mizuki couldn’t help but laugh a little as he raised his hands up in his defense. “It’s okay. I understand,” Aoba continued with a feigned sigh. “Doesn’t seem like a stripper’s territory, neh?” Mizuki snorted, caught. “I live with my grandma and we’ve lived here all my life.” Aoba turned to him, smiling. “I’m lucky I get to live here with her. It’s nice.”

They turned a corner, and Aoba pointed it out to him. It was a small, three-story home that fit in with all the other drowsy little houses that were packed together as they ascended the hill. It looked warm, friendly, a light on in the main foyer of the house that illuminated through the wooden slats in the entryway door.

Aoba stepped toward the stairs, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Thanks Mizuki for coming with me,” he said. His smile wavered a little as his eyes flitted to the ground. “I really mean it.”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Mizuki said, “It’s no big deal, I promise. I just wanted to make sure you made it back safe. Now, do you need me to tuck you in while I’m at it?” He grinned wickedly when Aoba’s expression dropped.

“You can go home now.”

“Kidding, kidding!” He laughed, and he heard Aoba chuckle a little too. “Be safe now okay? No more stalkers and hooligans.”

“Yeah, yeah no more stalkers.” Aoba nodded, and went to his bag. He dug around in it for a moment and then stopped, grumbling a low, “Dammit.” He glanced up at Mizuki and sighed. “Forgot my keys again. Sorry.” He fumbled for his coil.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind waiting for you,” Mizuki said. “Eri-chan isn’t gonna be too upset if I get home late.”

“Eri-chan?” Aoba asked, as the green transparent screen of his coil cut through the darkness. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“Ermine. She’s an ermine.” Mizuki said, with a small laugh. “About the only girl that will put up with me. And even she has an attitude at times. Women are so complicated.”

Aoba laughed, busy texting someone. They continued joking about his lack of dating life when Mizuki’s eye was drawn to the sudden pop of light from the second story window of the house. It wasn’t long before there was movement in the main foyer, and Aoba took a step forward as the entry door slid open.

Pretty eyes. Pretty hair. Dark as onyx, soft as velvet. He stood in the doorway, dressed in what Mizuki assumed to be his pajamas, the light of the foyer enveloping them in a warm glow as he greeted Aoba.

Aoba sighed with relief, and called him Sei as he made his way up to the last steps. “I knew you forgot your keys,” the young man, Sei, said—and goodness, his voice sounded like a lullaby. “They were on the sofa.”

“What? Really?” Aoba replied. “And you didn’t say anything?”

Sei shook his head with a small giggle. “Nope. I thought you already knew.” Aoba groaned. “I knew you were going to text me sooner or later, so I decided I’d wait for you.”

“But Sei it’s already late! And I normally work until close! What if you fell asleep?”

“We just threw out a cardboard box yesterday. I’m sure it would suffice.”

“You’re awful.”

Mizuki hated to seem creepy, but he couldn’t help but watch in awe, wondering the nature of their relationship. Obviously, Aoba lived with someone else beside just his grandma.

One of them must have felt Mizuki’s stare because Sei whispered something and pointed with a shy finger. Aoba, looking confused, suddenly twisted over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping away from the door. “I almost forgot. This is someone I work with. His name is Mizuki.” Sei lifted a hand over his mouth as he smiled. Was that shyness? Perhaps flirtation? Either way, Mizuki’s nerves fluttered with some strange sensation that he found oddly dangerous and addicting at the same time. “This is my twin brother, Sei.” Aoba turned back to his brother adding, “He walked me back home from the club tonight.”

“Oh, that’s kind of him,” Sei said. And then, those eyes, dark as onyx, soft as velvet met Mizuki’s. “Hello, Mizuki-san.” He greeted him with a small, poised bow. Mizuki quickly returned it, almost smacking his face into his knees. There was that giggle again. Mizuki was charmed and embarrassed all at once. “Thank you for watching over my brother.”

Mizuki swallowed, scratching the back of his neck as he sheepishly replied, “Ah, its no problem.”

Sei dipped his head a little, fingers clutching the wooden frame of the door. “It’s so sweet of you.”

Twins. Now that Mizuki thought of it, he could see their resemblance. It was in the eyes, the lips— though Aoba was strikingly distinctive looking, Sei far more delicate and pure. But there was an inherent closeness between them that was unique and well, exotic. Mizuki had never known a twin before…though, he wondered if maybe he had. He never would have guessed Aoba was a twin. There was nothing about him that seemed twin-like in the first place. Who knew that all along, Aoba had been living in sync with another person, two parts to a greater whole? It was amusing, and intriguing, and actually, pretty fucking rad. To be honest, Mizuki wondered why Aoba never mentioned having a twin at all.

When Mizuki glanced up again, his eyes met Sei’s. It may have been an accident or pure happenstance, but he felt incredibly stupid either way knowing that he had just been caught gawking, or whatever the heck he was doing. He didn’t bother to blush. Though he did sputter a little which was probably even more embarrassing.

Sei meanwhile, bit his lower lip as he smiled, his soft gaze incredibly and insatiably warm.

Mizuki almost forgot to notice Aoba, who was glancing back and forth between the two of them, his expression slipping in and out of confusion and dismay. Sei smiled a little more and Mizuki couldn’t help but smile back too. From the corner of his eye, Mizuki saw Aoba’s expression harden. Though it didn’t really register what was happening—that is until Aoba suddenly stepped forward.

“Well, alrighty now, it’s getting late so we’ll have to be going!” Aoba said, moving in between them, breaking their gazes. “Thanks helping me out tonight, Mizuki. You’re awesome. I’ll see you next week.” He began pushing Sei back inside the house.

“Thank you Mizuki-san. For everything,” Sei added over Aoba’s shoulder. “Please walk home safe.”

“Yeah, do that.”

“Have a good night,” Sei quickly continued.

“Bye now.”

Sei said something else, but Mizuki couldn’t make sense of it over the loud snap of the wooden door sliding shut. 

He stood outside their door for a thirty-seconds or so—thinking or something. The wind rustled through the bushes, the faint sound of a car’s engine rolled down the street.

“Goodnight,” he eventually said to the alfresco silence. And with that, he turned around and made his way back down the hill.

So, Aoba had a twin. Pretty fucking rad if you asked him.


	8. Lost & Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *appears in a poof of glitter and pink* HELLO FRIENDS! IT IS I MILKY I HAVE RETURNED. ヾ(｡･ω･｡)
> 
> Really I have though! I'm on tumblr again and everything! I couldn't bring myself to not finish this story. It's too important to me and you all are too important to me too. I hope you all are still interested in reading!! So now I present to you the long awaited (almost year in the making) 8th chapter of If These Stage Lights Were Stars. Thank you as my followers to stick out this hiatus! It really means a lot to me. ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ If you want to see updates on this fic, drawings, and the rest of my work, follow me at meow-milky@tumblr.com 
> 
> Thank you again for reading!

**Lost & Found: ** _Pia Mia_

~o~

Sei turned to him as soon as the door shut.

“You’re home early.”

The knot of anxiety Aoba thought he’d long swallowed down rise back up into his throat. “Uh—uh yeah. I guess am, a little.” He bent over to take his boots off, fumbling with the laces. He could feel Sei watching him through every second of it with those big black eyes.

“I’m surprised they let you off so early,” Sei replied. He stepped out of the genkan—going nowhere but the second step, now watching from above. He rocked back and forth on the lip of the ledge in his slippers. Aoba was surprised Ren hadn’t come scuttling down the hall with Sei. “Almost two hours.”

“I’m surprised too,” Aoba said. Sorta a fib, sorta not. Either way, he was having a hard time looking up right now. He yanked one boot off, then the other, tipping sideways a bit like a drunk. He balanced himself, hand against the wall, knowing if Granny were awake she’d bark at him about handprints. Though Aoba knew she’d never know the difference by just looking. He hiked the strap of his bag back to the top of his shoulder, feeling the weight of his clothing, shoes, a water bottle, maybe an old energy bar shift against him. The picture was also in there. He stuffed it away before he could convince himself to toss it; before Mizuki stopped him. Not that he could feel it amongst the chaos of his bag—or maybe he could.

The picture of him—of Koujaku—the picture that was a little bent, yellowed, printed on polaroid as if it were forty years older than it actually was. Aoba remembered that camera, the polaroid one that spat out a picture almost instantaneously. Granny knew how to work it, the film. It was something of her generation; maybe even the one before that. Such a small part of his childhood, so insignificant. He couldn’t even place a memory with it, maybe just the clicking sound of the shutter, the pop as the film developed. And yet here he was with a piece of it, a part of it. Because he has memories of that little blue race car clutched in tiny fingers, the scratched oak table still permanent fixture in the living room, the hideous green sofa Granny refused to get rid of. All parts of Aoba’s childhood. All parts of his life.

The photograph was weightless and yet, his bag felt heavy.

“Especially since you said your boss is really strict about that…” Sei edged. Rocking back and forth and back again, wiggling his feet. He knew. How? Aoba had no idea. But Sei was talking in that ‘you can’t hide things from twin’ voice.

“Well yeah, he usually is,” Aoba said, shifting his hips as adjusting his jeans by the straps. “But,” he sighed, "something happened tonight so I was able to get off early.”

There was that look. Suspicion and curiosity, darkened up his brothers soft features, making his brows draw together ever so slightly. Aoba’s heard fluttered. But it was too late, Sei was staring at him straight on and straight across with the persistence of a child with a question unanswered. “Something happened?”

Thank goodness, there was Ren! He came waddling into the genkan with his bottom-half wiggling, sniffing all over the both of them. They were both momentarily distracted by the dog, the wet kisses, the wagging, simply overjoyed. Aoba scooped him up into his arms, nuzzled his nose into Ren’s fur, and headed into the living room. Sei followed, offering Aoba the leftovers from dinner. He really wasn’t all that hungry, his stomach still in knots, but he figured he may as well eat something now that he had Sei worried.

Sei waited until Aoba’s mouth was full. “So what happened?”

Aoba glanced up. “Huh?”

“Tonight at work,” he said. He leaned against the counter. "You said something happened.”

Aoba swallowed. “Sorta. It was something small, nothing that important.” His focus went back to his bowl—then Ren in his lap--anywhere but Sei who was just too perceptive for his own good.

He had a way of reading a room; just like those drug-store mystery novels Aoba used to bring him as “gifts” when he was still in long-term care, purchased while picking up cigarettes for friends. Sei would always guess the ending halfway through, and tell Aoba the next time he visited. “You sure are hard to entertain,” Aoba had said one night as he was leaving Sei’s hospital room. “I enjoyed the novel very much, nii-san. Thank you.” “You don’t have to say you like a shit book if you—” “I do like it. Really. I do. Predicting an ending doesn’t make the book any less entertaining.” “Then what’s the point of wasting time to read it?” “It’s fun to predict the future! You can know anything if you really want to.” “Oh, really?” “Mmhm. Everything in the universe follows a pattern of some type. And for every pattern, there’s an algorithm to explain it. Quite literally, all we know is written in the stars—even the endings of mystery novels.” Aoba had looked at him wide-eyed before shaking his head. “Tell the nurse to lower whatever drugs they have you on.”

 

Aoba couldn’t help but look up at him putting lids back on leftovers, sucking on his lower lip.

Sei. His wonderful brother. His twin. Aoba wondered if he’d been there when that photograph was taken. Had he shared that memory too? Just unrecorded? There were so many years between them, separated, Aoba couldn’t really tell them apart. It hit Aoba then, the nausea.

What if something happened? Granny, Sei, Ren. They couldn’t defend themselves! What if that photograph was just the beginning of this stalker’s outburst and if he’d been collecting momentos from Aoba’s childhood for years? It’d be impressive for him to find this stuff but Aoba was certain there were ways. What if Aoba wasn’t the only one he’d been watching? Sei didn’t say anything—and perhaps that was worse than anything he could have said at all. Aoba tried to take another bite of rice, just one more but frankly he still felt a pang of acidic worry in his gut.

Sei might have read his thoughts; he glanced up, expression heavy with concern asking him why he wasn’t eating. “Aoba, you’re always hungry. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Aoba wanted to nod. He really did.

“Being honest, I’m just a little spooked about what happened at the club tonight.”

“...Spooked about what?" It wasn’t easy to say it but eventually he managed to explain everything, dazed, tired, heart accelerating because Sei looked so confused, then shocked. “Aoba, how long has this been happening?”

“I don’t know? Tonight’s the first time the guy actually approached me with it. Apparently he’s been to the club before, I’ve danced for him, but I don’t remember. I mean, it couldn’t have been that long ago but—he, he claims he knows everything. About you. About Granny.” The photograph! He almost forgot. “H-He gave me this.” Aoba reached for his bag, digging around blindly in the clutter for a moment before he felt the waxy laminate brush his palm, and there it was.

Sei took the picture, holding it delicately between his fingers—it had the look of an antique after all—and his eyes widened. “That’s you.”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s…is that, Koujaku?” The twins made eye contact. Aoba nodded.

“He says that’s him. That he’s Koujaku.”

Sei studied the photograph, running the pads of his fingers along the sides of it, flipping it over. “Someone wrote on it.” It wasn’t a major find, just a scribble, but Aoba nearly leapt out of his seat. It wasn’t the phone number that had been hastily written in pencil alongside a small note, “Please call me when you can.” That alone was haunting but Aoba couldn’t focus on that now. No, beside that, there was something else. Softer handwriting. Feminine. A date penned in ink. It was faded. “You were six then,” Sei said after a void of silence. “Koujaku left when you were around seven, right?”

Aoba nodded.

“How do you think a stalker would have found something like this?”

Aoba shook his head. His thoughts swirled, dizzying. “I have no idea…I don’t think I’ve ever seen this photo before.” Sei shook his head; neither had he. They both sat there pondering it for a moment. Aoba wondered about the writing, the date, the fact that Sei had no recollection of this either, not even the photograph. The thing was—Sei studied the Seragaki family’s photo albums. Years upon years of them. Looking at memories that weren’t quite his but should have belonged to him. They were just as much his as they were Aoba’s. So for the two of them, combined, to not recollect—

“What if he is telling the truth?” Aoba glanced up at him. His dear, dear twin. “What if he really is Koujaku?” Aoba picked up the photograph, fingers icy and brittle. His voice stopped up in his throat, staring at the boyish grin, the dark hair, the babysitter he adored—oh, how he had adored him. So gentle! They’d play castle and Koujaku was the perfect prince. And Aoba, he loved being Koujaku’s horse. Pretending to eat hay, going on adventures around the neighborhood, fighting off the neighborhood boys who came to hassle little Aoba about one thing or another. A duo, fighting evil! And once Aoba had grown tired and cranky, the prince would always carry his horse back home. The perfect prince! “It wouldn’t be impossible. In fact, more probable than a stalker getting a hold of something like this and then tracing it back to you.”

Aoba sucked in a deep breath. He was stricken with more anxiety—but why? “I—I guess it wouldn’t be—impossible.”

“He could be here. On this island. This whole time.”

“But, he moved a way a long time ago. He moved to the mainland. With family. He was—"

“That was 16 years ago. Certainly something could have happened. He could have moved back. He could be looking for you.” He was in childish terror; perhaps this was all true. Perhaps he’d been visited by a ghost—but no! This was real! He was real! Because he saw Koujaku, felt his skin, his breath, and the entire time Aoba had been oblivious! Clueless.“What if he’s been looking for you all this time? What if he—" Something released within Aoba, the wad of fear that had been building up in his throat, the throbbing anxiety in his belly. He swallowed again and again, harder each time, and he hadn’t even noticed the first tear fall. “Aoba?—oh, Aoba!” Sei hurried to his side, wrapping his arms around him and gripping him tight. “Oh no, please don’t cry. Don’t cry!”

There was no reason to be crying. There certainly wasn’t. But it felt like the only appropriate thing to do, no matter how silly he must have looked. Sei nuzzled his face in Aoba’s hair, right by his ear, sounding terrified as he muttered an incomprehensible mix of comforting words, apologizing—for what? Aoba shuddered, fingers touching Sei’s arm that was pressed tight against him in self-conscious because he too was startled by the burst of emotion. Like a balloon spent, air rushing out of him at an alarming rate. And for some reason, Sei began to cry too. Aoba could feel it; huge tears, wet in his hair, soaking their way to his scalp.

They were too wrapped up within each other to hear Granny come down the stairs. Her voice shocked them, grabbing their attention even as they were still hugging each other like children. “I’m not quite sure what you two are up to this late, looking like that,” she said, shuffling her way into the kitchen. A suspicious eye examined them. “All the racket woke me up.”

Aoba started—“Granny, we’re sorry we—“

“Aoba, had something unexpected happen at work today.” Tae’s expression hardened.

“Something unexpected?”

Sei turned to Aoba—'go on, tell her’ his eyes said. Aoba sighed, ran a hand through his hair. Repeating it out loud—he’d seem silly.

Tae didn’t bother to wait. She stepped to the table and went straight for the photograph as if she had seen it all along. And maybe she had! Aoba could never hide something from her. She looked it over, humming under her breath in that elderly way of hers, looking at it for what seemed like a minute. “This is what you’re so worked up about?”

At this point, Aoba had to explain. He brushed over some details but he could see Granny’s interest pique at certain points of the story, her feather-thin brows rising at the part when Koujaku revealed himself, at the implications of the man being a stalker. His storytelling was a little frantic. Granny had to tell him to slow down, repeat himself at some points. The story was all over the place, he was sure, and Granny was just putting it all back together by the time he finished. “Whether it’s Koujaku or not, he knows a lot,” Aoba said, once he caught his breath. "He knows you. He knows Sei. He knows where we live. I just worry about his intentions. I know other guys where this type of thing has happened. It wasn’t easy for them. They lost—“ He didn’t want to say it. It didn’t feel right to say it. “They lost a lot.”

Tae didn’t say anything for a moment. She was staring at the chipped tiles on the counter for a long wordless moment. “And this man, did he offer any other information besides this photograph?”

Aoba bit his lip. “No. He—I—I chased him out of the club before he could get a chance.” Now he realized... Stupid! What was he thinking? He could be so hasty sometimes! So easy to jump the gun!

Granny grunted something incomprehensible (was she furious? Disappointed? Scared? Aoba couldn’t decide which emotion he liked less). “You know, Aoba,” she finally said. “We can never quite know whether this man is who he claims to be by sitting around pondering it.” She paused, running her fingers over the photograph again, taking another look at it. Aoba stared at her. Couldn’t quite fathom what she was thinking. “He left you a phone number, didn’t he?” Aoba nodded. "Call it.”

Call? Aoba's heart pounded like a bird’s, so rapidly he worried he might pass out. “G-Granny.”

She wasn’t finished. “Tomorrow. In the afternoon. Invite him here and let him explain himself. Ask the proper questions.”

“B-but Granny—what about you? And Sei? What if he—"

“We will be here too,” Tae said. "And if he has any poor intentions we will figure it out as it comes. But for now,” she looked at him, her grandson, straight on and straight across. “I can’t stand to see that look on your face any longer.” With that, Granny turned around. He watched her small, rounded silhouette headed back out of the kitchen and down the hall. He and Sei listened to the rubber bottoms of her slippers sliding along the hardwood floors; she suddenly stopped. “Sei! Don’t pretend like I don’t know you’ve been up watching television again! Get to bed or you’ll be sick as a dog in the morning!”

A light sigh; a sympathetic chuckle.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Sei said, getting up from his seat at the table. They exchanged goodnights. “Please don’t worry Aoba,” Sei said, hugging him one more time. “I think—I think you’ll be happier if you call. Just once. If it’s really him, you’ll know.”

Aoba sat in the dark kitchen for a while, Ren in his lap, stroking the dog’s soft fur right at the nape of his neck. He talked to him—or maybe it was just to himself—but Ren was listening with his little ears cocked backwards like satellites focused on Aoba, and Aoba alone.

~o~


End file.
